j^iMiiMj 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 


Ex  Libris 
C.  K.  OGDEN 


BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 


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"Roast  Sheep!" 


BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 


BY 

ELIZA  PUTNAM  HEATON 


Scatter  now  some  bright  Praise  for  the  island  which  Zeus,  the  Lord  of 
Olympus,  gave  to  Persephone,  and  confirmed  to  her  by  shaking  his  locks, 
that  he  uiould  support  prosperous  Sicily,  fairest  spot  of  the  fruitful  earth, 
by  the  wealthy  excellence  of  cities. — First  Nemean  Ode  of  Pindar. 


NEW  YORK 

E.  P.  DUTTON  &  COMPANY 

68 1  Fifth  Avenue 


Copyright  1 9  20 

By  E.  P.  BUTTON  &  COMPANY 


All  Rights  Reserved 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  Amerira 


PREFACE 


Eliza  Osborn  Putnam  was  born  in  Danvers, 
Mass.,  a  descendant  of  families  long  native  to  that 
region.  Her  education,  begun  in  Danvers  and 
Salem  schools,  and  furthered  by  graduation  in 
Boston  University,  where  she  was  an  honor  student 
in  the  classic  tongues,  well  fitted  her  for  a  writer's 
career. 

After  her  marriage  and  removal  to  New  York, 
Mrs.  Heaton  began  newspaper  work,  in  which  she 
swiftly  gained  such  success  as  was  possible  at  a 
time  when  women  in  that  profession  were  still  few 
and  looked  upon  as  experimental;  serving  first  as 
special  writer  and  afterward  as  a  managing  editor 
in  newspaper  and  syndicate  offices,  until  failing 
health  made  arduous  tasks  impossible. 

Marooned  in  Sicily  by  ill  health  a  dozen  years 
ago,  the  author  turned  for  occupation  to  the  study 
of  peasant  life,  a  study  eagerly  pursued  until  it 
was  cut  short  by  her  death.  Of  that  work  the 
present  volume  can  fairly  be  presented  as  com- 
pleted. 


CONTENTS 


Introduction i      .  vii 

PART  I 
THE  OLD  MAGIC 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.    Elflocks  and  Love  Charms  ....  3 

II.    Donna  Pruvidenza's  Lemon  ....  34 

III.  Cola  Pesce 66 

IV.  The  Cleft  Oak 96 

V.    The  Hairy  Hand 116 

VI.    Jesus  as  Destroyer 137 

PART  II 
FAIRS  AND  FESTIVALS 

I.    Christmas 159 

11.    Troina  Fair 178 

III.  St.  Philip  the  Black 203 

IV.  The  Miracles  of  Sant'  Alfio     .      .      .  228 

V.    The  Car  of  Mary  at  Randazzo        .      .  261 

VI.    "Red  Pelts"  at  Castrogiovanni      .      .  281 

vii 


viii  CONTENTS 

PART  in 
ISLAND  YESTERDAYS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  Etna  in  Anger 297 

11.  Messina  Six  Months  After  .      .      .      .312 

in.  In  the  Sulphur  Mines 327 

IV.  Hearth,  Distaff  and  Loom  .      .      .      .339 

V.  Speed  the  Plow 352 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


"Roast  Sheep" Frontispiece 

FACING  PAGE 

The  Flax  Worker ..3 

Elf  Locks 16 

Door  Charms  for  Evil  Eye     .      .      .       .       .48 

Catania  Boats  Have  Eyes 67 

Lobster  Pots  and  Fish  Traps 85 

The  San  Pancrazio 85 

The  Little  Oak  Tree 109 

The  Piper 163 

Going  to  the  Fair 195 

Hotel  at  Troina 195 

A  Herdsman 195 

Girls  and  Pigs 195 

"Most  Becoming"        .......  195 

The   "American"    Cart,   and   Detail   Showing 

Llncoln 248 

A  Straw  Hut 263 

Tying  the  Boys  in  Place,  and  Detail  of  the 

Car 272 

"White  Wings" 292 

Gossips  at  Castrogiovanni 292 

A  Pig  Pillow 292 

The  Laundry 292 

Driven  by  the  Lava 305 

Fruit  Trees  for  Fuel 305 

Ruined  by  Etna 305 

ix 


X  LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

FAOMG  PAGE 

How  THE  Lava  Advances 310 

A  Useless  Vigil 310 

Queen  Elena's  Village 318 

"Kitchenette,"  American  Village        .       .       .318 

Miners  at  Villarossa 329 

"Carusi" 337 

Child  Labor          337 

The  Little  Sulphur  Miners 337 

Gna  Tidda's  Loom 341 

A  Sicilian  Kitchen 345 

Plowman  Homeward  Bound 353 

Threshing 355 

The  "American  Houses" 358 

More  Houses  of  Returned  Emigrants        .       .  358 

Pictures  Made  for  "Babbo  in  America"    .       .  363 


INTRODUCTION 


The  author  of  this  book  was  able  to  act  in 
Messina  after  the  earthquake  as  an  occasional  in- 
terpreter between  Italian  ofificers  from  the  North 
and  the  local  peasants.  This  odd  situation  may 
illustrate  the  difficulties  that  dialects  threw  in  the 
way  of  her  study  of  Sicilian  customs  and  her  suc- 
cess in  mastering  them.  But  the  gift  of  tongues 
was  not  the  only  qualification  for  the  task  by  which 
intimate  acquaintance  with  the  chosen  field  enabled 
her  to  profit.  Of  the  700  local  dialects  of  Italy, 
those  used  in  Sicily  have  a  family  resemblance. 
All  draw  more  largely  than  those  of  North  Italy 
upon  Greek,  Saracen  and  Spanish  sources.  Such 
skill  in  comparative  philology  as  the  author  pos- 
sessed, from  Sanscrit  down  to  the  modern  Latin 
languages,  was  a  key  to  them  all.  A  better  key 
to  confidences  and  frank  speech  was  her  neighborly 
sympathy.  Probably  there  were  few  regions  in 
Sicily  where  she  did  not  gain  true  friends  among  the 
unlettered,  as  well  as  among  savants  and  anti- 
quarians. 

Beginning  her  work  with  no  plan  beyond  solacing 


xii  INTRODUCTION 

an  Invalid's  leisure  by  the  production  of  a  book  of 
tourist  observations,  Mrs.  Heaton  delved  Into  the 
mass  of  material  presented  by  the  survival  of  old 
beliefs  upon  a  soil  largely  pagan;  by  picturesque 
custom  and  poetic  observance;  by  peasant  steadfast- 
ness through  centuries  and  the  recent  swift  effect 
of  new-world  migration,  until  her  projects  widened 
to  embrace  several  volumes.  To  these  a  capstone 
should  have  been  set  by  describing  the  debt  of  the 
United  States  to  the  industry  of  the  Sicilians,  and 
the  benefit  Sicily  in  turn  derives  from  the  home- 
coming emigrant.  Her  study  of  island  thought  and 
work  as  affected  by  the  "Americani"  might  have 
helped  to  make  the  industrious  children  of  the  sun 
better  understood  in  the  country  which  Is  enriched 
by  their  labors. 

For  this  task  much  material  was  gathered  and 
many  hundred  photographs  taken  of  intimate 
Sicilian  life.  This  remains  material  only.  The 
author's  projected  study  of  the  reaction  of  the  old 
world  to  the  new,  through  sea  migrations  more  vast 
and  more  fruitful  of  change  than  were  the  Crusades, 
was  interrupted  by  the  war.  She  was  one  of  those 
Americans  who,  protesting,  were  ordered  home  by 
Secretary  Bryan  in  the  early  days  of  the  great  con- 
flict; her  health  did  not  permit  her  to  offer  her 
services  in  war  work,  so  that  her  observations  upon 
a  theme  so  deeply  affected  by  the  past  five  years 
would  require  rewriting  from  fresh  Inquiry,  and 
must  be  counted  lost. 


INTRODUCTION  xiii 

Nine  chapters  of  this  book  were  completed  by 
the  author.  Those  upon  the  August  festival  in 
Randazzo  and  the  fairs  of  Troina  and  Castro- 
giovanni  were  finished  from  rough  drafts.  The 
account  of  the  sulphur  mines,  of  the  Etna  eruptions 
in  19 10  and  of  Messina  after  the  earthquake,  are 
made  up  from  letters  home.  Two  remaining 
chapters  of  Part  III  were  put  together  from  notes 
and  material  left  in  unfinished  form.  The  manner 
of  a  work  thus  gathered  varies,  from  the  fanciful 
treatment  of  "Donna  Pruvidenza's  Lemon"  and 
"Jesus  the  Destroyer"  to  the  more  soberly  descrip- 
tive later  pages.  Nor  can  a  volume  so  compiled 
be  wholly  free  from  errors,  which  an  author's  re- 
vision would  have  corrected. 

A  very  small  part  of  the  rhymes,  invocations, 
charms  and  "  'razioni"  noted  down  by  Mrs.  Heaton 
in  all  manner  of  difficult  circumstances,  and  at  much 
cost  of  labor  and  discomfort,  are  printed  in  foot- 
notes. These  passages,  with  examples  of  familiar 
speech  in  the  text,  will  furnish  material  for  com- 
parison with  literary  Italian  to  those  acquainted 
with  the  most  beautiful  of  all  languages. 

The  Sicilian  dialects  do  not  differ  so  competely 
as  to  bar  speech  between  provinces,  as  sometimes 
happens  in  the  mainland.  The  doubling  of  initial 
consonants  and  the  substitution  of  "g"  and  "d" 
for  "1,"  and  of  "u"  for  "o,"  are  the  peculiarities 
most  striking  to  the  visitor.  Thus  ''beautiful 
daughter" — if  one  could  be  supposed  to  tempt  the 


xiv  INTRODUCTION 

evil  eye  by  such  a  compliment — is  "bedda  figghia," 
not  "bella  filia."  Anello  (ring)  is  "aneddu"; 
castello  (castle),  "casteddu";  Mongibello  (Etna), 
"Mungibeddu."  "B"  is  frequently  softened  to  "v," 
as  in  modern  Greek. 

Spanish  influence  is  noted  in  many  words;  and 
diminutives  and  nicknames  are  universal,  applied 
as  freely  to  tourists  as  to  natives,  perhaps  not  al- 
ways with  their  knowledge.  For  an  American 
matron  of  years  and  presence  to  be  addressed  as 
Dear  Little  Missy,  "Cara  Signurinedda,"  is  a  com- 
pliment of  friendship. 

Naturally,  Greek  words  appear,  as  in  "cona" 
(icon),  a  sacred  picture  or  statue;  and  there  are 
places,  like  the  ever  memorable  Plain  of  the  Greeks 
of  Garibaldi's  heroes,  where  more  than  a  little 
Greek  is  still  spoken.  Words  of  Arab  or  Saracen 
origin  are  common  in  place  names,  in  the  names 
of  winds,  of  tools,  of  articles  of  ancient  and  com- 
mon barter. 

Nearly  all  the  illustrations  of  the  book  are  from 
photographs  taken  by  the  author,  or  from  those 
made  under  her  direction  by  Francesco  Galifi,  of 
Taormina.  On  her  behalf  it  is  proper  to  offer 
thanks  to  many  who  furthered  her  work  by  aid  or 
encouraged  it  by  interest;  to  the  memory  of  the 
learned  Dr.  Pitre;  to  the  Advocate  Lo  Vetere  and 
the  Deputies  Colaianni  and  De  Felice;  to  Mrs. 
George  H.  Camehl,  of  Buffalo;  the  American-born 
Signora  Baldasseroni,  of  Rome;  the  British-born 


INTRODUCTION  xv 

Signora  Caico,  of  Monte  d'Oro,  and  Miss  Hill,  of 
Taormina;  to  the  courteous  American  Consular 
representatives;  to  a  hundred  Sicilians  of  humble 
station  in  life,  many  of  them  known  to  the  editor 
only  by  nicknames;  last  and  most,  to  the  Signorina 
Licciardelli  ("Nina  Matteucci") ;  her  brother, 
Major  Licciardelli,  and  their  family,  in  Taormina 
and  Catania. 

J.  L.  H. 


PART  I 
THE  OLD  MAGIC 


The  Flax  Worker 


CHAPTER  I 
Elf-locks  and  Love  Charms 

Amusing  and  caressing  him  (the  babe  in  the  cradle)  they 
(the  "Donne  di  fuora")  sometimes  touch  his  hair  and  mat 
it  into  a  Httle  lock  not  to  be  tangled,  which  goes  by  the 
name  of  woman's  tress,  "plica  polonica."  This  tress  is  the 
sign  of  the  protection  under  which  the  baby  has  been  taken, 
and  constitutes  its  good  fortune,  as  well  as  that  of  its 
family.  No  one  ever  dares  to  cut  it;  certain,  in  case  it 
should  be  cut,  of  incurring  the  wrath  of  the  Signore,  who 
would  visit  on  the  child  cross-eyes,  or  a  wry  neck,  or  spinal 
weakness. — Pitri. 

It  was  early  twilight  of  a  bleak  day  at  the  end 
of  December  when  I  first  saw  Vanna,  the  Grass- 
hopper-eater. I  had  left  Giardini  while  purple 
clouds  still  scudded  across  the  golden  sky,  and  the 
smoke  of  Etna  flamed  in  the  sunset.  In  the  cold 
hill  shadows  as  I  climbed  the  old  road  to  Taormina 
the  wind  from  the  sea  bit  sharply,  and  the  first  brave 
clusters  of  almond  blossoms  shivered,  pinkish-gray 
against  bare  gray-brown  branches. 

There  passed  me  a  couple  of  men  muffled  in 
shawls,  their  long  cane  poles  bearing  witness  that 
they  had  been  beating  olives  from  the  trees;  then 
I  was  alone  until  at  a  sudden  turn  I  came  upon  a 
group  of  women  knitting  and  gossiping  as  they 

3 


4  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

toiled  up  the  bare  lime-rock  way,  so  hard  at  the 
surface,  so  soft  and  rutted  where  the  crust  has  worn 
through. 

"A-a-a-a-ah !"  twanged  one  of  them  to  an  ass 
that  snatched  a  hasty  bite  at  the  side  of  the  path 
and  then  lurched  ahead,  its  saddle-sacks  bulging 
with  the  squeezed  skins  of  lemons. 

"A-a-a-a-ah !"  The  woman  repeated  the  nasal 
call.  But  the  ass  refused  to  quicken  its  pace,  swing- 
ing now  right,  now  left,  in  the  zig-zag  track  from 
step  to  step  across  the  path  where  countless  gen- 
erations of  mules  and  asses  have  trodden  foot-holes 
and  helped  the  rain  to  scoop  channels. 

Three  hens  that  clung  to  the  animal's  back,  their 
wings  flopping  nervously  every  time  it  heaved  up 
a  shoulder,  so  absorbed  my  attention  that  I  started 
when  a  voice  said,  "Good-evening,  your  ladyship!" 

An  old  woman  had  detached  herself  from  the 
group  and  was  waiting  for  me,  lowering  from  her 
head  to  the  wall  a  great  bundle  she  had  been  carry- 
ing. "All  sole  alone?"  she  queried,  looking  curi- 
ously at  me  out  of  faded  yellow-gray  eyes  that  yet 
were  the  brightest  I  had  ever  seen. 

In  a  country  where  shop  girls  still  hesitate  to  go 
to  and  from  work  unchaperoned,  a  woman  who 
walks  by  herself  outside  of  her  village  is  an  object 
of  scrutiny. 

"Are  there  wolves?"  I  responded. 

The  old  woman  grinned  comprehension.  "The 
way  is  safe.     Are  we  Christians,  or  are  we  not?" 


ELF-LOCKS  AND  LOVE  CHARMS  5 

she  answered.  "I  have  failed  hi  my  duty !  I  should 
have  knov^n  that  Vossia  (Your  Ladyship)  under- 
stands her  own  affairs.  But,"  she  added,  "I  do 
not  persuade  myself  that  Vossia  ought  to  make  the 
road  alone  at  this  hour." 

"My  daughter,  I  am  not  alone,"  I  said;  "am  I 
not  with  you?" 

"Va  be!  Rest  then  a  minute,  and  we  will  make 
the  road  together." 

She  was  lean  as  a  grasshopper  but  erect,  and 
her  cheeks,  though  sunken,  showed  a  wholesome 
red.  She  had  no  visible  teeth  and  her  chin  curved 
up  toward  her  nose.  She  was  barefooted,  and  her 
skirt,  in  faded  checks  of  black  and  red,  was  pulled 
up  at  one  side  under  the  string  of  her  blue  apron. 
A  yellow  kerchief  was  tied  over  her  head  and 
another  in  pink  and  white  covered  her  shoulders. 

"Softly!  The  way  is  bad,"  she  warned  me,  as 
presently  we  started  forward. 

"The  way  indeed  is  bad,"  I  replied;  and  then 
almost  I  lost  consciousness  of  her  presence  in  the 
monotonous  rhythm  of  the  prayer  she  began  to  wail : 

St.  Nicola,  send  away  this  gale; 

Sant'  Andrea,  beyond  our  pale! 

I  walk  with  Mary,  I  walk  the  way; 

In  the  name  of  God  and  of  Christ  I  pray 

Let  wind  touch  me  not  as  I  walk  this  day. 

The  cracked  voice  went  on  and  on.  When  it 
came  at  last  to  a  stop  I  perceived  that  with  Sicilian 


6  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

facility  of  rhyme  she  had  finished  her  song  with  a 
twist  in  my  direction: 

Joseph,  Mary  and  our  Lord, 
Give  me  health  along  the  road; 
For  Vossia's  sake  this  prayer  I  say, 
May  she  meet  good  people  by  the  way. 

"How  are  you  called?"  I  asked  abruptly. 

"Vanna,"  she  answered,  naming  also  her  three 
daughters-in-law. 

"  The  Grasshopper-eater !'  "  I  exclaimed,  a  nick- 
name that  I  had  heard  coming  suddenly  to  memory. 

"First  the  nickname,  then  the  name!"  she  re- 
turned, good-humoredly.  "And  Vossia  is  the 
American  who  talks  as  we  others  talk." 

"You  may  use  my  nickname,  if  you  like,"  I 
apologized. 

"It  suffices  to  say  'the  little  American,*  "  she  re- 
sponded, politely. 

Thus  completely  introduced,  we  gossiped  about 
our  families  until  we  came  to  the  roadside  altar 
that  stands  at  the  last  turn  in  the  way  from  which 
one  looks  back  on  Giardini.  Here  under  the  carob 
tree  Vanna  paused.  Untying  the  mouth  of  her 
heavy  bag,  she  took  out  a  tight  little  bunch  of  the 
red  carnations  that  are  called  "cobblers'  flowers" 
and  set  them  on  the  ledge  of  the  picture  in  a  rusty 
tin  that  once  had  held  tunny  fish  in  oil.  Then  she 
signed  herself,  kissing  her  fingers  to  the  Mother 
and  Child. 


ELF-LOCKS  AND  LOVE  CHARMS  7 

I  had  long  been  curious  about  this  unbeautiful 
Madonna,  at  once  neglected  and  revered.  Old  red 
paint  shows  behind  the  harsh  blue  of  the  altarino's 
broken  masonry.  Mary's  face  is  long-nosed  and 
anxious  and  her  hands  are  as  huge  and  clumsy  as 
the  baby's  legs.  Neither  sun  nor  rain  can  soften 
the  stark  green»  and  yellows  of  the  icon ;  yet  offer- 
ings never  fail  of  flowers,  fading  without  water. 

"Is  she  perhaps  miraculous,"  I  inquired;  "this 
Madonna?" 

"Yes,"  said  Vanna,  with  a  short  positive  nod; 
adding  after  a  pause:  "I  make  a  novena  to  her  for 
the  return  of  my  son  from  America." 

"She  will  bring  him?" 

"Once  before  when  I  made  it  he  came  and  stayed 
a  year." 

She  retwisted  the  cloth  that  made  a  pad  for  her 
head,  and  bent  while  I  lifted  the  great  sack  to  its 
place  on  this  "corona."  As  we  resumed  the  way 
she  said:  "One  rests  well  here,  for  Vossia  knows 
it  was  here  the  Madonnuzza  rested  when  she  came 
to  Taormina  fleeing  the  Saracens." 

The  Madonna  is  seen  so  frequently  at  Taormina 
even  to-day,  in  the  visions  of  the  old,  that  I  asked, 
without  surprise,  even  as  to  the  Saracens: 

"And  St.  Joseph,  did  he  rest  here  also?" 

Vanna  looked  full  at  me  with  her  quick,  quiet 
eyes  that  shone  like  a  cat's  with  yellow.  "No," 
she  said.  "The  Madonnuzza  sat  on  the  wall  and 
gave  the  feeding  bottle  to  the  Bambineddu  while 


8  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

San  Giuseppe  took  his  stick  and  went  to  find  a 
hiding  place." 

Vanna's  active  step  became  that  of  a  bent  old 
man  trudging  uphill  leaning  on  a  staff. 

"He  went  up  past  Taormina,"  she  said,  "until 
he  came  to  the  grotto  where  is  now  the  church " 

We  looked  up,  but  the  rock  under  the  Castle  of 
Taormina  where  stands  the  hermitage  of  the 
Madonna  della  Rocca  was  not  in  view.  -^ 

"When  San  Giusipuzzu  had  found  the  grotto, 
he  hurried  back  to  the  Madonna  and  the  Bambinu, 
for  the  Saracens  were  coming,  *Pum!  Po!  Pum! 
Po!'" 

Here  the  Patriarch's  feeble  step  was  changed  to 
that  of  a  tramping  host  as  my  companion  continued 
to  stamp,  "Pum!  Po!  Pum!  Po!" 

St.  Joseph  and  the  Madonna  climbed  as  fast  as 
they  could,  but  the  Saracens  climbed  faster;  so 
they  turned  aside  into  a  wood  of  lupines  but  the 
lupines  rattled  their  pods  and  made  such  a  clatter 
that  the  Madonna  did  not  dare  to  stop,  though  she 
was  tired  and  the  Bambineddu  kept  crying. 

Vanna  twisted  her  mobile  old  face  and  began  to 
whimper  like  a  fretted  baby;  stopping  to  say:  "So 
the  Madonna  cursed  the  lupines,  saying,  'May  your 
hearts  be  as  bitter  as  my  grief,' "  And  Vossia 
knows  how  bitter  are  the  lupines;  one  soaks  them 
long  before  eating. 

"They  hurried  through  the  lupines  and  came  to 
a  field  of  rye,  but  the  rye  refused  to  close  behind 


ELF-LOCKS  AND  LOVE  CHARMS  9 

them.  It  bent  as  they  passed  and  would  not  spring 
up  again,  but  left  a  track  for  the  Saracens  to  see. 
The  Bambineddu  kept  crying,  and  the  Madonna 
cursed  the  rye.  It  is  for  this  that  bread  made  of 
it  is  not  satisfying. 

"The  Saracens  were  close  behind,  coming  Pum! 
Po!  Pum!  Po!  So  they  hurried  through  the  rye 
and  came  to  a  field  of  wheat.  The  good  wheat 
closed  well  behind  them  and  made  no  noise,  and 
the  Madonna  blessed  it,  and  they  rested,  and  the 
Bambineddu  went  to  sleep  with  its  face  in  the 
Madonnuzza's  neck. 

"By  and  by  they  went  into  a  vineyard,  and  the 
vines  arched  over  them  and  twisted  their  tendrils 
and  made  a  shelter  like  a  straw  hut;  and  there 
they  stayed  till  it  was  dark,  for  the  Madonna  said: 
'I  can  no  more!'  When  it  was  night  they  went 
up  to  the  grotto.    Thus  it  was,  Vossia." 

"Did  the  Madonna  stay  long  at  the  grotto?"  I 
inquired. 

"Yes;  one  day  in  a  thunderstorm  there  came 
into  the  grotto  a  little  girl  who  was  minding  two 
Iambs,  and  the  Madonna  said  to  her:  'Pretty  little 
girl,  go  down  to  Taormina  and  tell  the  archpriest 
to  come  up  here.' 

"The  little  girl  said:  *I  can't  go;  I  must  tend 
my  lambs.' 

"  T'U  tend  them  for  you,'  said  the  Madonna. 

"So  the  little  girl  went.     The  archpriest  came 


lo  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

up  to  the  grotto  and  the  Madonna  said  to  him: 
'Excellency,  I  wish  a  church  built  here.' 

"The  archpriest  answered:  'There  is  too  much 
rock.' 

"But  the  Madonna  said:  'The  rock  will  break 
away  of  itself.' 

"The  archpriest  called  the  master  masons,  and 
the  minute  they  went  to  work  the  rock  did  break 
away  of  its  own  accord.  They  built  the  church 
that  Vossia  has  seen,  but  the  grotto  itself  they  did 
not  disturb.  These  are  things  of  God,  Vossia;  no 
one  knows  them  but  me," 

Vanna  looked  at  me  again  with  her  calm,  shining 
yellow  eyes.  She  set  the  tip  of  her  forefinger 
against  her  forehead,  repeating  with  deliberation: 
"I  tell  these  things  of  God  to  Vossia;  there  is  no 
one  else  who  knows  them." 

It  is  true  that  the  flight  into  Egypt  through 
Taormina  is  known  to  no  one  but  Gna  Vanna; 
but  the  legend  of  the  plants  that  hid  and  that  re- 
fused to  hide  the  Virgin  is  old  Italian.  A's  to  the 
sanctuary  of  the  Madonna  della  Rocca,  there  are 
those  in  Taormina  who  say  that  it  was  a  boy,  not  a 
girl,  who  entered  the  grotto,  and  that  he  saw  a 
beautiful  woman  spinning.  Frightened,  he  ran 
away  and  told  the  story.  The  people  who  came  to 
look  found,  indeed,  no  woman;  but,  instead,  a 
miraculous  picture  of  the  Mother  and  Child. 

In  the  gathering  dusk  we  met  fishermen  coming 
down  the  hill  to  the  sea  for  their  evening's  work, 


ELF-LOCKS  AND  LOVE  CHARMS  ii 

and  there  passed  us  a  scrap  of  a  boy  driving  a  little 
Sardinian  donkey.  The  child  had  been  to  mill  to 
get  a  tumulu  of  wheat  ground,  for  his  father  had 
land,  he  said;  and  almond  trees  so  tall  you  could 
not  get  the  nuts  without  climbing  a  ladder.  While 
he  boasted  sociably  of  this  phenomenon  and  of  the 
clean,  shivering  ass,  newly  clipped  because  it  had 
been  "too  dirty,"  Vanna  lapsed  into  a  silence  so 
unresponsive  that,  when  the  lad  had  bubbled 
"bb-b-bb-r-rr-r"  to  the  ass  and  had  left  us,  I  asked 
if  the  great  bag  was  tiring  her. 

"No,"  she  said,  shortly,  straightening  herself  and 
stepping  out  more  smartly.  Although  she  was  old, 
she  could  work  in  the  fields  and  carry  burdens  with 
the  best  of  them.  Of  course  the  bag  was  heavy. 
In  it  there  were  chick  peas,  cauliflowers,  lemons 
and  chestnuts.  Some  of  these  things  she  had  earned 
picking  up  olives  as  the  men  beat  them  from  the 
trees,  and  others  people  had  given  her  out  of  re- 
spect. It  was  fortunate  that  people  did  respect  her 
and  give  her  food,  because  her  husband  had  a 
heart  "like  the  claw  of  a  devil  fish";  he  was  so 
stingy  he  never  gave  her  anything.  In  the  bag 
there  was  food  for  several  days,  and  her  grand- 
children would  be  glad  to  see  her  coming.  Of 
course  it  was  heavy,  but  she  could  carry  it,  because 
the  Madonna,  St.  John  and  the  sainted  souls  of 
the  beheaded  bodies  helped  her.  It  was  natural  that 
she  should  be  helped,  because  she  was  good.  She 
worked,  she  brought  food  from  the  country,  and 


12  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

she  had  no  amusement  except  to  stand  in  her  door- 
way. 

The  monologue  ran  along  until  a  mysterious 
"they"  aroused  my  curiosity.  The  respect  and  help 
on  which  she  was  enlarging  seemed  to  involve 
other  personages  than  the  Madonna,  St.  John  and 
the  sainted  souls  of  the  beheaded  bodies. 

"Who  are  'they?'  "  I  interrupted. 

She  gave  me  no  answer  and  continued  to  talk 
of  her  merits  and  their  rewards.  But  it  was  not 
long  before  the  flood  of  her  own  words  swept  her 
to  revelation.  Setting  down  her  sack,  she  glanced 
quickly  around  and  took  off  her  head  kerchief, 
replacing  it  instantly  as  a  couple  of  women  came 
in  sight  at  the  turn. 

"What  long  hair  you  have !"  I  exclaimed.  I  had 
had  a  momentary  glimpse  of  grizzled  braids,  thin 
as  a  string,  wound  many  times  round  and  round 
her  head  and  held  in  place  by  the  knifelike  blade 
of  a  silver  dagger. 

"Si,"  she  replied  with  finality,  as  if  there  were 
something  I  ought  to  understand.  And  suddenly 
there  came  to  me  a  recollection  of  old  men  I  had 
seen  in  mountain  villages  among  whose  scant, 
short  locks  there  stood  out  long  matted  wisps  of 
gray  hair.  Such  "trizzi,"  tangled  by  elfin  fingers 
while  a  baby  lies  in  the  cradle  and  never  cut — how 
would  one  recognize  them  on  a  woman?  Were 
Vanna's  protectors  those  impish  little  sprites,  half 
fairy,  half  witch,  the  Women  of  the  Outside? 


ELF-LOCKS  AND  LOVE  CHARMS         13 

"You  have  'the  tresses?'"  I  inquired. 

"Si,"  she  said,  with  short  positiveness. 

She  would  tell  me  nothing  more,  for  we  had 
passed  the  chapel  of  the  Madonna  of  the  Mercies, 
and  already  we  heard  the  stir  of  the  village  as 
we  climbed  the  last  long  slope  under  the  walls  of 
Taormina.  Some  day  she  would  show  me  her  hair, 
she  promised;  but  these  were  secret  things  not  to 
be  spoken  of  except  when  we  were  alone. 

Vanna  the  grasshopper-eater  had  just  moved 
into  my  own  street,  and  I  marked  the  house  she 
pointed  out  to  me.  But  next  morning  when  I  passed 
it  going  to  the  Corso  the  door  was  shut,  for 
Taormina  was  shivering  at  a  temperature  of  not 
more  than  fifteen  degrees  above  freezing,  and  the 
fiend  was  riding  in  the  wind.  It  was  not  until 
New  Year's  Day  that,  noticing  hens  hopping  casually 
across  her  threshold,  I  followed  them  inside. 

The  room  in  which  I  found  myself  was  so  dark 
and  smoke-grimed  that  in  spite  of  the  partly  opened 
door  I  did  not  see  at  first  that  I  had  stumbled  on 
a  family  gathering.  Vanna's  house  has  a  window 
opening,  but  for  economy  of  heat  its  wooden  shutter 
was  closed.  Vanna  and  her  daughter-in-law  Rocca, 
a  red-cheeked  young  woman,  were  making  macaroni, 
and  Vanna's  greeting  was  more  ready  than  cordial. 

Vanna's  husband,  too,  was  at  home.  He  of  the 
claws  of  the  devil-fish  proved  to  be  a  little  half- 
blind  old  man  whom  I  already  knew  as  Domenico 
the  dwarf.     With  a  rusty  long  cap  pulled  down 


14  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

over  his  head,  hairy  sandals  resting  on  the  "conca" 
where  perhaps  a  Httle  warmth  Hngered  in  the  white 
ashes,  chin  bent  on  his  two  hands  that  nursed  the 
top  of  a  stick,  he  looked  sunk  in  chilled  misery. 
Ordered  to  kiss  my  hand,  he  yielded  dumb  obedience. 

Vanna  set  a  chair,  lifting  from  it  a  bundle  of 
clothes  wet  from  the  wash,  and  wiping  it  with  her 
apron  while  she  shrilled  "sciu!  sciu!"  to  a  lean 
brown  fowl  that  flew  upon  the  bed  to  get  at  the 
macaroni.  A  less  enterprising  bird  was  settled  in 
a  nest  of  rags  and  brush  under  the  fireplace. 

"Do  they  lay  well?"  I  asked. 

"They  eat  and  do  nothing!"  scolded  Vanna. 
"Uncle  January  sends  us  cold  weather.  The  hens 
dirty  the  house,"  she  added ;  "but  what  can  one  do?" 

Let  those  criticise  Vanna's  housekeeping  who 
have  themselves  kept  house  and  reared  live  stock 
in  one  room.  Beside  the  cold  fireplace  were  heaped 
brambles  and  roots  of  cactus  fig  for  the  cooking 
fire.  A  disordered  table,  a  long  brown  shelf  against 
the  rear  wall  and  a  chest  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  held 
most  of  the  family  possessions.  Behind  the  great 
bed  and  in  the  corners  stood  old  baskets,  boxes, 
water  jars  and  tall  coops  made  out  of  rush-woven 
fish-traps.  A  hen  with  a  broken  leg  and  a  cock 
moped  in  these  cages,  and  from  some  burrow  in 
the  litter  appeared  at  moments  dirty  white  rabbits. 

While  Vanna  railed  at  a  peevish  child  that 
tumbled  about  on  the  floor,  I  studied  the  walls  and 
their  smoke-dimmed  icons.     The  Madonna  of  the 


ELF-LOCKS  AND  LOVE  CHARMS         15 

Rock,  the  Madonna  of  the  Chain,  the  Black 
Madonna  of  Tindaro,  S.  Pancrazio,  Sant'  Alfio  and 
his  brothers,  S.  Filippo  the  black,  S.  Francesco  di 
Paola,  S.  Giovanni  the  beheaded,  the  sainted  souls 
of  the  beheaded  bodies 

I  had  not  finished  counting  the  Lares  and  Penates 
when  Vanna  found  an  interval  of  quiet  in  which 
to  tell  me  how  she  had  set  the  hen's  leg,  which  "he" 
had  broken  with  his  stick.  Furtively  she  thrust 
out  towards  her  husband  her  first  and  fourth 
fingers  in  the  sign  of  the  horn,  her  gesture  and  the 
gleam  in  her  pale  bright  eyes  spelling  warning. 

While  she  talked  Vanna  did  not  neglect  the 
macaroni.  Rocca  held  on  her  knees  a  board  carrying 
a  lump  of  dough,  from  which  from  minute  to  minute 
she  pinched  off  bits.  Rolling  these  between  her 
hands,  she  passed  the  rolls  one  by  one  to  Vanna, 
who  sank  into  each  a  knitting  needle  and  re-rolled 
the  paste  on  the  board  to  form  the  hole.  Each 
short  piece  as  she  slipped  it  off  the  needle  she  hung 
to  dry  over  the  edge  of  a  sieve  that  balanced  on 
the  rolled-up  mattress  at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  When 
enough  for  supper  was  ready  she  tied  the  rest  of 
the  dough  In  a  kerchief  and  shut  it  into  the  chest, 
throwing  the  crumbs  to  the  cock  with  a  "chi-chi- 
richi!  cu-cu-rucu!" 

This  work  finished,  Vanna  picked  up  the  dark 
mite  of  a  child  and  began  crooning,  "ninna,  nan- 
na "  interrupting  herself  to  kiss  the  tear- 
blurred  face.    "Pretty  boy !    He  has  fifteen  months, 


i6  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

Vossia.  His  grandma's  wee  one!  Ninna,  ninna, 
nanna " 

The  brown  eyes  shut,  and  after  a  minute  Rocca 
carried  the  baby  away,  his  shaven  head  drooping 
over  her  arm. 

I  was  rising  to  follow  when  old  MIcciu,  who 
beyond  grunting  once  or  twice,  *T  am  not  content !" 
had  sat  hunched  in  his  chair  seemingly  oblivious 
of  his  surroundings,  struggled  to  his  feet. 

Vanna  repeated  the  sign  of  the  horn,  forming 
with  her  lips  the  words,  "Zu  Nuddu  is  going  out" ; 
and,  in  fact,  "Uncle  Nobody,"  picking  up  his 
shoulder  bags  of  black  and  white  wool,  scuffed  to- 
ward the  door. 

"An  accident  to  you!"  exclaimed  Vanna. 
"Eccu!"  she  said,  with  satisfaction,  as  the  door 
closed  behind  the  old  man. 

Left  alone  with  me,  she  took  off  her  kerchief  after 
some  urging,  displaying  again  her  fleshless  head, 
where  the  skin  clung  to  the  scalp  like  parchment. 
Gold  hoops  hung  in  her  ears,  and  wound  in  rings 
like  a  mat  around  the  back  of  her  skull  were  griz- 
zled strings  of  hair.  Pulling  out  the  pins,  she  let 
down  this  mass,  undoing  with  her  fingers  the  upper 
part  of  two  braids  and  releasing  a  scanty  lot  of 
gray  old  woman's  hair  that  hung  loose  and  ragged 
to  her  shoulders. 

Starting  from  this  short  mane  and  falling  to 
Vanna's  feet,  even  lying  on  the  floor,  dropped  two 
dark  tails  that,  felted  with  dust,  had  more  the  look 


Elf  Locks 


ELF-LOCKS  AND  LOVE  CHARMS         17 

of  strands  of  sheep's  wool  than  of  what  they  were 
in  fact,  matted  locks  of  her  own  hair. 

"Eccu!"  she  repeated. 

These  tails  were  the  "trizzi."  Never  cut,  never 
combed,  treated  with  the  respectful  neglect  which 
is  their  proper  care,  they  marked  Gna  Vanna  as 
a  person  living  under  a  spell;  the  protegee  from 
birth  of  the  mysterious  "women  of  the  outside," 
or  "women  of  the  house" — the  little  "ladies"  who 
have  many  names.  Her  fearsome  pixy  locks  set 
Vanna  apart  as  one  who,  taught  by  witches,  pos- 
sessed some  at  least  of  the  seven  faculties  of  the 
witch  summed  up  in  the  jingle! 

She  can  embroil  the  peaceful  moon  and  sun, 
Fly  through  the  air  fast  as  the  wind  doth  run; 
Through  closed  doors  she  knoweth  how  to  go, 
The  man  most  strong  she  maketh  weak  and  slow; 
She  leadeth  closest  friends  to  fight  with  knives; 
Her  will  makes  husband  wrangle  with  their  wives; 
She  striketh  men  and  women  sore  and  lame, 
To  have  no  rest  and  suffer  cruel  pain, 

Vanna's  "Eccu!"  was  said  with  pride.  She 
looked  over  her  shoulder  at  the  tails  and  then  smil- 
ingly at  me. 

"What  would  happen,"  I  asked,  "if  they  were 
cut?" 

"I  should  die." 

It  is  a  number  of  years  now  since  Vanna  said 
this  to  me,  and  I  am  as  confident  to-day  as  I  was 
then  that  she  meant  it.     She  believed  and  still  be- 


i8  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

lieves  in  the  sanctity  of  her  elf-locks,  while  fully 
realizing  their  value  as  an  asset. 

"But  if  you  combed  them?" 

"Something  would  happen  to  me." 

With  much  dramatic  gift  the  weird  old  creature 
told  me  how  sometimes  in  the  night  she  waked  to 
see  in  her  room  twenty-four  lovely  little  "women 
of  the  house,"  ladies  and  fairies. 

When  the  "ronni"  appeared  the  whole  room 
glowed  with  light.  They  wore  bright,  beautiful 
clothing  and  sometimes  they  sang.  Sometimes  they 
talked  in  tiny  little  voices,  but  mostly  they  were 
mute.  Sometimes  they  played  games.  One  of 
their  favorite  tricks  was  to  pitch  "the  old  man," 
whom  they  did  not  like,  out  of  bed.  Once  when 
"the  old  man"  would  give  her  nothing  to  eat  they 
showed  her  the  key  of  the  box  where  he  kept 
bread  and  wine.  Sometimes  they  caressed  her  hair 
and  made  new  tresses. 

Lifting  her  gray  locks  she  pointed  out  little  curls 
against  her  neck,  sacred  like  the  tresses.  But  even 
she  was  not  safe  from  their  anger.  Sometimes,  if 
she  went  bare-footed,  they  gave  her  beatings  be- 
cause they  insist  on  cleanliness.  She  pulled  up  her 
skirts  to  show  her  white,  well-kept  flesh. 

Oftenest  of  all  they  danced. 

I  looked  on  dazed  while  Vanna  the  grasshopper- 
eater  whirled  around  the  room  in  a  wild  dance  in 
imitation  of  the  ronni,  her  brown,  wrinkled  face 
full  of  uncanny  animation,  yellow  eyes  glowing, 


ELF-LOCKS  AND  LOVE  CHARMS         19 

elf-locks  swinging,  her  grotesque  hops  scaring  the 
hen  out  of  the  nest  under  the  fireplace. 

Not  scanning  details  too  closely,  I  did  not  doubt 
the  good  faith  of  words  or  actions,  because  I  have 
long  understood  with  what  literal  truth  Pitre  says 
that  in  certain  environments  we  cannot  listen  to 
tales  told  in  all  honesty  without  remaining  uncer- 
tain "whether  these  men  and  these  women  are  a 
prey  to  continual  visions,  or  whether  we  ourselves 
are  dreaming  with  our  eyes  open."  Rather  through 
this  woman  so  garrulous  and  so  secretive,  so  simple 
and  so  shrewd,  so  vindictive  and  yet  so  kindly,  so 
credulous  and  so  positive,  I  seemed  to  catch  glimpses 
of  an  obscure  brain-life  like  that  of  a  witch  of  the 
fifteenth  century. 

Up  to  a  certain  point  she  would  believe  in  herself 
and  others  would  believe  in  her.  Witches  have 
always  carried  magic  in  their  hair,  and  hence  the 
foes  of  witches  have  cut  it  off.  Sibilla  herself  was 
unkempt  and  her  hair  tangled  like  a  horse's  mane. 

I  wondered  if  any  trace  attached  to  this  skeleton- 
thin  "Grasshopper-eater"  of  the  evil  eye  fear  ex- 
pressed in  the  saying: 

"A  grasshopper  has  looked  on  thee." 

Ceasing  her  gyrations,  Vanna  put  the  cackling 
hen  to  the  door  and  sank  out  of  breath  on  the  dark 
old  chest,  bringing  the  warm  egg  and  dropping  it 
into  my  hands.  While  she  coiled  her  hair  once 
more  around  the  dagger,  she  repeated  her  former 
self-congratulations  that  she  could  work,  although 


ao  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

she  was  old,  by  the  help  of  the  ronni.  "Because 
of  their  favor,  too,  people  brought  her  gifts,  de- 
siring her  prayers."  That  very  morning  she  had 
received  the  unhappy  cock  in  the  fish-trap  and  two 
rotoli  of  flour  to  make  pasta  for  the  New  Year. 
These  things  were  fortunate,  because  she  had  no 
one  but  the  ronni  to  provide  for  her. 

'T  am  an  orphan,"  she  concluded;  "I  have  no 
father,  mother  I  have  none.  I  have  no  one.  I 
must  live.    Do  I  speak  well?" 

She  replied  to  her  own  query  with  a  complacent 
nod. 

Knowing  what  sorts  of  prayers  are  in  request 
from  reputed  "wise  women,"  I  suggested:  "People 
ask  your  'razioni  against  witchcraft?" 

"Si,"  she  answered.  Only  a  few  days  before  a 
woman  had  sent  for  her  whose  bread  had  come 
out  of  the  oven  full  of  ugly  bubbles  and  "twisted 
as  if  it  had  been  struck  by  lightning."  Even  a  blind 
woman  must  have  seen  that  this  was  the  work  of 
evil  eyes.  She  had  not  used  oil,  salt  or  incense, 
but  she  had  said  a  prayer: 

Four  loaves  and  four  fishes, 
Away  forever  with  ill  wishes ! 
God  is  moon  and  God  is  sun, 
Harm  this  bread  there  can  no  one. 
Christ  Jesus  died,  Christ  Jesus  rose, 
Out  of  this  oven  malocchio  goes ! 

Next  morning  the  woman  baked  sixteen  loaves 
and  they  came  out  as  beautiful  as  bread  could  be. 


ELF-LOCKS  AND  LOVE  CHARMS         21 

She  cut  a  big  piece  and  gave  it  to  Vanna  to  eat, 
all  hot  as  it  was,  seasoned  with  oil  and  garlic. 

"These  are  things  of  God,  Vossia,"  Vanna  con- 
tinued. "The  priests  speak  against  these  'razioni, 
but  they  themselves  cannot  help  the  people.  What 
do  priests  do  but  say  the  mass  and  eat  and  sleep? 
If  people  want  help  they  must  come  to  me;  there- 
fore they  respect  me.  I  cannot  read  prayers  out 
of  a  book,  but  I  have  many  written  in  my  mind. 
Always  for  good,  never  for  evil,  are  they.  Loose? 
yes;  bind?  No!  Are  we  Christians  or  are  we 
not?    Vossia  is  persuaded?" 

Relieving  me  of  the  egg,  she  lifted  the  lid  of 
the  chest  as  if  to  put  it  away;  questioning  as  she 
did  so.  "In  Vossia's  country  hens  make  themselves 
by  machine;  it  is  true?" 

"By  machine  ?"  I  repeated. 

"Si ;  one  of  my  sons  brought  home  from  America 
a  machine  for  making  chickens;  but  the  hens  make 
them  better.  He  lost  everything,  and  now  he  has 
not  pennies  to  go  again." 

Taking  out  of  the  chest  two  or  three  other  eggs, 
she  pressed  them  all  on  me,  saying:  "They  do  not 
give  to  eat  to  Vossia  such  eggs  as  these,  eggs  of 
the  house,  all  made  to-day." 

A  suspicion  that  Vanna  meant  to  save  herself 
from  bare  feet  and  beatings  by  enlisting  me  as  a 
respectful  giver  of  shoes  grew  larger  in  my  mind, 
but  fortunately  I  concealed  it.     To  me,  at  least. 


22  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

Vanna  has  always  been  a  friend  more  disinterested 
than  a  ronna. 

To  cover  my  uncertainty  I  picked  up  a  strip  of 
faded  silk  that  lay  on  a  pile  of  stuff  in  the  open 
chest ;  it  proved  to  be  a  man's  necktie  knitted  in  pink, 
through  which  ran  a  line  of  black  embroidered 
lettering. 

"What  does  it  say?"  demanded  Vanna.  I  read 
to  her.  It  was  in  correct  Italian:  *T  love  thee, 
thee  always  have  I  loved,  thou  wert  the  first." 

"To  wear  at  festas  the  poor  thing  gave  it  to 
him!"  exclaimed  Vanna. 

"Who  is  he?"  I  demanded,  scenting  a  story. 

Vanna  took  out  of  the  chest  a  pair  of  coarse 
blue  socks  and  two  or  three  men's  kerchiefs. 
These  things  she  turned  over  for  some  time  on  her 
knees  before  she  brought  herself  to  the  point  of 
telling  me  that  they  belonged  to  a  young  man 
called  Peppino  who  had  refused  to  marry  the  girl 
to  whom  he  was  promised,  on  the  ground  that  his 
mother  objected,  and  that  the  poor  girl's  father 
was  threatening  to  kill  her.  The  girl's  mother,  who 
lived  not  far  away,  had  sent  for  Vanna  the  day 
before,  and  had  asked  her  to  make  a  "recall"  of 
the  youth  to  the  girl  he  had  abandoned. 

I  fingered  the  pink  necktie  with  fresh  interest. 
"You  are  going  to  do  it?"  I  questioned. 

Vanna  said  she  didn't  know.  The  poor  girl 
cried  all  day  long ;  it  broke  one's  heart  to  hear  her. 
She  would  gladly  do  something  to  bring  the  mother 


ELF-LOCKS  AND  LOVE  CHARMS         23 

to  such  a  good  will  that  she  would  say  to  her  son: 
"Take  her."  But  never  had  she  heard  of  such  a 
hard-hearted  mother-in-law.  And  they  had  not 
given  her  money  enough  to  buy  candles.  To  make 
the  recall  she  must  light  seven  candles  every  night 
for  nine  nights  in  succession,  and  if  anything  went 
wrong,  she  must  begin  again  at  the  beginning. 
Every  candle  cost  half  a  lira,  so  that  she  ought  to 
have  at  least  nine  lire. 

At  this  point  the  door  opened  and  Rocca  entered 
with  a  little  girl,  perhaps  four  years  old.  Glancing 
at  us  curiously,  she  demanded:  "What  do  you  talk 
about  so  long?" 

"Things  of  God,"  replied  Vanna,  shutting  the 
chest  and  warning  me  with  a  glance  of  her  quiet 
shining  eyes.  "I  tell  Vossia  things  of  God  of  which 
she  may  think  in  these  days  of  rain  when  she  must 
stay  indoors." 

Rocca  snorted  good-humoredly. 

Bidden  to  wish  me  "good-evening,"  the  child,  as 
I  rose  to  go,  proffered  a  timid  "buona  sera." 

"Listen  to  her !"  cried  Vanna  delightedly.  "She 
says  'buona  sera!'  instead  of  'buna  sira'  like  we 
others.    That  comes  of  going  to  school !" 

The  brown  little  curly-head  was  made  to  speak 
a  piece: 

Giovannina  is  my  name; 
I  am  not  pretty  nor  too  plain, 
I  do  not  know  how  it  can  be 
That  everybody's  so  good  to  me. 


24  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

"Beautiful,  eh?"  cried  the  proud  grandmother, 
fishing  a  soldo  out  of  the  big  pocket  that  hung  at 
her  waist.  "Beautifully  she  speaks!  Run,  buy  a 
biscotto !" 

It  was  some  days  before  I  again  saw  Vanna,  and 
I  might  never  have  known  more  of  the  poor  "zita" 
at  Santa  Venera,  if  I  had  not  chanced  to  pass  her 
door  one  afternoon  just  as  she  was  inserting  the 
key.  A  little  book  that  I  carried  caught  her  atten- 
tion. Taking  it  from  me  as  she  invited  me  indoors, 
she  turned  the  pages  with  interest,  putting  on  spec- 
tacles to  see  the  better.  Finally,  giving  it  back  to 
me,  she  asked: 

"What  does  it  say?" 

The  book  happened  to  be  an  Italian  version  of 
the  old  Sicilian  Greek,  Theocritus,  and  it  opened  to 
the  page  I  had  been  reading.  I  turned  into  the 
vernacular  what  Andrew  Lang  has  better  phrased: 
"As  turns  this  brazen  wheel,  so,  restless  imder 
Aphrodite's  spell,  may  he  turn  and  turn  about  my 
door !  My  magic  wheel,  draw  home  to  me  the  man 
Hove!" 

Vanna  looked  puzzled.  She  asked:  "Is  it  a  book 
of  prayers?  There  was  a  lame  man  who  lived 
above  Giarre  who  had  an  ancient  book  of  'razioni. 
He  is  dead  now,  but  to  all  who  went  to  him  for 
help  he  would  read  out  of  his  book.  I  cannot  read, 
I  have  no  book,  but  in  my  head  I  have  many 
'razioni.  What  more  does  it  say,  Vossia?" 
I  began  the  second  idyl,  but  when  I  had  reached 


ELF-LOCKS  AND  LOVE  CHARMS         25 

the  words,  "Wreathe  the  bowl  with  bright-red  wool, 
that  I  may  knit  the  witchknots  against  my  grievous 
lover,  who  for  twelve  days — oh,  cruel ! — has  never 
come  hither "  she  interrupted,  exclaiming: 

"It  is  a  love  prayer !" 

"Yes,"  I  admitted;  "is  it  like  the  one  you  were 
going  to  say  for  the  poor  deserted  girl  at  Santa 
Venera?" 

"Mine  is  more  better,"  she  boasted. 

It  may  have  been  the  wish  to  prove  that  the 
prayers  in  her  head  were  "more  better"  than  those 
written  in  my  book  that  procured  me  a  matinee  re- 
hearsal of  the  charms  she  was  saying  nightly  for 
the  abandoned  sweetheart.  For  she  had  reached 
the  middle  of  the  novena.  The  difficulty  about 
candle  money  had  somehow  been  overcome. 

Opening  the  chest,  she  took  out  Peppino's  socks, 
necktie  and  kerchiefs.  "The  wool  must  be  white," 
she  said,  going  to  a  sheepskin  that  hung  from  a 
nail  on  the  wall,  and  pulling  off  some  flocks.  Be- 
fore proceeding,  she  fastened  the  door. 

The  "recall"  could  not  be  made,  she  said,  except 
when  the  moon  was  waxing  and  on  a  night  when 
the  stars  were  bright.  The  first  step  was  to  light 
seven  candles.  She  nodded  towards  the  table,  where 
seven  spots  betrayed  that  seven  drops  of  melted 
tallow  served  as  candle  bases.  Then,  taking  the 
wool,  she  carded  hastily  a  little,  using  a  hand  con- 
trivance supported  on  a  chair.  Next,  spinning  a 
thread  with  the  distaff,  she  braided  a  cord  of  three 


26  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

strands,  explaining  that  if  this  "lacciu" — lassoo  or 
noose — were  made  just  the  length  of  Peppino,  that 
would  add  to  its  virtue. 

Taking  the  cord  in  her  hands,  she  tied  in  it  three 
knots  while  reciting  as  fast  as  her  tongue  could  run : 

Peppino,  two  are  they  that  watch  thee; 
Of  them  that  bind  thee,  ten  there  be. 
I  bind  and  do  not  loose  the  knot 
Till  what  I  wish  from  thee  I've  got. 
'Tis  thee  I  bind  and  thee  I  make 
Thy  promised  bride  to  wife  to  take. 

Laying  down  the  knotted  cord,  Vanna  put  Pep- 
pino's  kerchiefs  on  her  head,  piling  above  them  the 
socks  and  necktie.  Having  thus  put  herself  into 
communion  with  him,  she  rushed  on: 

Peppino,  I  look  at  thee. 

Thou  look'st  at  me. 

All  things  else  out  of  mind  must  sink, 

Of  pledged  wife  only  must  thou  think. 

Dropping  Peppino's  property  beside  the  cord, 
Vanna  next  took  a  little  salt  and  stirred  it  with 
the  forefinger  of  her  left  hand  around  and  around 
in  the  palm  of  her  right  hand ;  but  before  she  could 
begin  the  new  prayer  I  begged  her  not  to  gabble 
at  such  a  speed. 

Glib  recitation  of  formulas  was  no  more  essen- 
tial in  ancient  Roman  sacrifice  than  it  is  to-day  in 
Sicilian  incantations.  Unless  a  spell  is  said,  fast 
and  smoothly,  without  mistaking  a  syllable,  it  must 


ELF-LOCKS  AND  LOVE  CHARMS         27 

be  repeated  from  the  beginning.  A  trip  is  a  bad 
omen.  It  results  that  no  conjuror  can  get  through 
her  formula  at  all  except  at  top  speed. 

"Softly !  Softly !"  I  would  entreat  of  Vanna.  "I 
don't  get  half  the  words."  Then  she  would  break, 
stumble,  begin  again  and  in  a  minute  rattle  faster 
than  before.    While  stirring  the  salt  she  said: 

Turn  salt! 

Turn  bread! 

Turn  pine  cone! 

Turn  wood! 

Turn  Peppino's  head. 

All  things  else  from  his  mind  must  sink, 

Of  his  sweetheart  only  must  he  think; 

For  I  hold  true  faith  that  come  he  must 

His  troth  to  keep,  for  this  is  just. 

Opening  the  wooden  shutter  of  the  small  window 
and  looking  up,  Vanna  said  that  the  next  'razioni 
must  be  said  while  gazing  at  the  moon: 

Vitu,  dear  saint  of  Mountain  Royal, 
To  you  there  comes  your  servant  loyal; 
I  come  to  you  to  ask  a  grace, 
As  if  kin  we  were  of  blood  and  race. 
It  is  your  dogs  that  you  must  lend ; 
To  hunt  Pippinu  you  must  them  send. 
The  beast  so  savage  that  has  eyes. 
Like  a  butcher's  dog  "A-a-a!"  that  cries. 
Let  him  seize  Pippinu  by  the  hair 
E'en  to  his  pledged  wife's  door  to  bear. 

With  no  woman  may  he  speak, 
No  man's  counsel  may  he  seek. 


28  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

In  thee  I  trust,  strong  is  my  hope 

To  hear  dogs  bark,  bells  ring,  doors  ope. 

Saint  Devil,  concede  me  what  I  wish.  I  will  not  respect 
you  as  Devil,  if  you  do  not  concede  me  what  I  wish.  I  will 
respect  you  as  Devil,  when  you  concede  me  what  I  wish. 

With  a  face  as  placid  as  if  she  were  knitting  a 
stocking  Vanna  concluded  this  invocation.  Then, 
dropping  on  her  knees  at  the  window,  and  surveying 
the  heavens  as  if  she  were  choosing  a  star,  she 
declaimed : 

Shining  star,  powerful  star, 

Heedless  of  me  still  you  are? 

Bright  angel  of  the  good  light, 

In  three  words  bring  him  to  my  sight. 

Well  come,  well  go ;  take  him  by  the  feet, 

And  he  comes  thither  fast  and  fleet. 

Devil  of  Mt.  Etna  dread, 

Peppino  seize  by  the  hairs  of  his  head, 

Thou  devil  of  the  mouth  awry, 

Peppino  take  and  bring  him  nigh. 

In  Holy  Trinity  its  name. 

When  sounds  Ave  Maria  bring  him  home. 

It  spoiled  the  congruity  of  Vanna' s  charm  that 
from  force  of  habit  she  tacked  a  Holy  Trinity  tag 
belonging  to  some  other  'razioni  to  an  invocation 
of  the  devil.  More  to  myself  than  to  her  I  com- 
mented: "Why  does  every  love-charm  call  up  the 
evil  one?" 

"He  has  great  power,"  said  Vanna,  pulling  her- 
self to  her  feet,  and  confirming  her  answer  with  a 


ELF-LOCKS  AND  LOVE  CHARMS         a9 

positive  glance  and  nod.  She  was  beginning  an 
account  of  Satan's  subjects — unbaptized  babies  who 
die  while  yet  pagan  and  scream  forever  in  the  dark- 
ness, and  dying  sinners  whose  hair  "the  black  man" 
clutches,  shouting  "Come  on!"  while  they  howl, 
"U-u-u-u-u!"  when  I  brought  her  back  to  Pep- 
pino. 

The  "recall"  ended,  she  said,  with  a  prayer,  to 
"the  sainted  souls  of  the  beheaded  bodies,"  fol- 
lowed by  nine  paters,  nine  aves  and  nine  glorias. 
During  these  and  after  the  finish  she  made  "the 
listening"  standing  at  her  window  to  catch  the  night 
sounds  of  the  village.  If  this  listening  brought 
to  her  ears  music  or  laughter  or  the  ringing  of  bells, 
or  the  opening  of  doors,  or  if  a  cock  crowed  or  a 
dog  barked,  her  prayers  were  answered.  But  if 
an  ass  brayed  or  a  cat  miaued,  or  if  she  heard 
quarreling  or  the  splash  of  water  thrown  into  the 
street,  these  were  bad  omens. 

She  folded  away  Peppino's  goods  and  began 
cutting  up  lettuce  leaves  and  throwing  the  green 
ribbons  on  the  floor  as  she  told  me  that,  for  her, 
the  best  sign  of  all  was  the  appearance  of  a  little 
white  puppy  that  sometimes  came  and  lay  on  her 
knees.  When  she  saw  this  shadow  dog,  her  'razioni 
never  failed.  Lacking  the  puppy,  she  observed 
whether  the  star  to  which  she  had  prayed  "shut 
and  then  opened  again,"  for  this  meant  that  it 
heard,  thought  and  said  "yes."  Our  stars,  she  said, 
give  us  the  grace  we  ask  of  them. 


30  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

"It  Is  a  great  labor/'  I  said ;  "this  recall." 
"Yes,"  she  admitted;  "but  it  never  fails." 
While  the  hens  fought  for  the  lettuce  she  asked 
to  hear  my  prayer  again,  and  I  read:  "Do  thou, 
my  Lady  Moon,  shine  clear  and  fair,  for  softly. 
Goddess,  to  thee  will  I  sing,  and  to  Hecate  of 
hell.  The  very  whelps  shiver  before  her  as  she 
fares  through  black  blood  and  across  the  barrows 
of  the  dead.     Hail,  awful  Hecate!  to  the  end  be 

thou  of  our  company " 

When  Vanna  realized  that  my  'razioni,  as  well  as 
her  own,  included  knots,  a  turning  spell,  dogs  and 
invocations  to  the  moon  and  to  a  ruler  of  hell,  she 
agreed  that  for  a  book  prayer  it  was  not  bad. 

I  continued  to  read,  and  we  were  still  comparing 
notes  when  there  came  a  thump  at  the  door.  "The 
old  man!"  sighed  Vanna,  going  to  let  him  in.  "He 
swears  by  the  Holy  Devil,"  she  said,  "if  he  finds 
the  door  shut." 

Instead  of  swearing,  the  old  man  scuffed  and 
stumped  across  the  floor  and  hid  himself  in  a  chair 
behind  the  bed.  But  our  seance  was  over.  When 
I  asked  Vanna  to  complete  the  recall  by  reciting 
her  prayer  to  the  souls  of  the  beheaded — criminals 
who,  expiating  their  deeds  by  the  forfeit  of  their 
lives,  have  acquired  power  to  work  miracles — she 
was  absorbed  In  the  pot  of  basil  on  her  window 
ledge.  She  must  put  a  wet  cloth  over  it  at  night, 
she  said,  to  make  it  grow  better.     She  offered  me 


ELF-LOCKS  AND  LOVE  CHARMS         31 

a  few  fragrant  sprigs  together  with  a  double  lemon 
— two  lemons  merged  in  one  except  for  their  twisted 
ends. 

"It  is  against  malocchio;  it  makes  the  horns," 
she  assured  me,  tucking  it  into  my  handbag. 

My  first  thought  on  reaching  home  was  to  look 
up  an  old  prayer  to  S.  Vito  that  I  happened  to 
have  copied  long  before.  The  chief  function  of 
this' saint  is  to  protect  from  the  bite  of  mad  dogs; 
he  also  casts  out  evil  spirits,  and  his  underworld 
connections  are  such  that  for  centuries  lovers  have 
appealed  to  him.  Gna  Vanna's  prayer,  in  fact,  is  a 
time-battered  fragment  of  an  old  charm,  included 
in  a  manuscript  book  of  "secrets  for  making  gold, 
constraining  devils,  evoking  and  divining  the  future" 
that  was  taken  from  Dr.  Orazio  di  Adamo  and 
used  as  evidence  against  him  in  his  trial  for  witch- 
craft at  Palermo  in  1623. 

This  'razioni  was  to  be  said  in  a  garden  by  moon- 
light. At  the  end  a  knife  was  to  be  stuck  into  a 
tree. 

Dr.  Pitre  gives  a  charm  practically  identical  with 
Adamo's  as  still  in  use;  but  I  have  come  upon 
nothing  more  than  fragments  which  have  undergone 
many  changes.  Once,  for  example,  while  a  good- 
natured  dealer  in  antiques  was  turning  her  drawers 
upside  down  for  me  in  search  of  some  trifle,  there 
fell  out  a  crumpled  paper  scrawled  over  with  char- 
acters so  illegible  that  it  was  with  difficulty  I  recog- 


32  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

nized  the  prayer  to  S.  Vito.     The  first  six  lines 
ran  like  Vanna's;  then,  as  to  the  dogs,  it  continued: 

You  must  "sick"  them  into  S 's  heart, 

Hard  as  the  pain  of  my  grief's  dart. 

And  there  it  stopped.  On  the  other  side  of  the 
paper  was  a  charm  to  be  said  in  church.  Smoothing 
out  the  sheet  before  us,  my  friend  informed  me 
with  hesitation  that  to  use  it  one  must  enter  the 
church  with  the  left  foot  foremost,  hiding  a  red 
cord  under  the  shawl.  At  the  moment  of  the  con- 
secration one  must  make  three  knots  in  the  cord, 
saying: 

I  do  not  come  to  mass  to  hear, 
Nor  yet  to  worship  Christ  so  dear. 
I  come  to  bind  with  this  my  noose; 
I  bind,  I  tie,  I  do  not  loose 
Till  my  love  does  all  my  pleasure. 
His  feet  I  tie  with  this  my  noose, 
His  hands  I  bind,  I  do  not  loose 
Till  my  love  does  all  my  pleasure. 

"It  was  a  woman  in  Catania,"  said  my  friend, 
"who  gave  me  these." 

"A  wise  woman?"  I  suggested. 

"Yes,"  she  confessed;  "but  I  don't  use  them. 
Sometimes  when  my  husband  is  away  on  his  busi- 
ness trips  I  should  like  to  know — but  I  don't  be- 
lieve in  charms.     And  yet — do  you  know  X ? 

He  used  to  beat  his  wife  till  all  the  neighbors  heard. 


ELF-LOCKS  AND  LOVE  CHARMS         33 

and  now  he  takes  her  out  in  an  automobile.    They 
say  she  puts  drops  of  her  blood  in  his  coffee.    Some 

things  don't  seem  true  and  yet But  charms 

can't  be  of  any  use,  else  every  man  in  Taormina 
would  be  married  to  a  rich  tourist." 

Elf-locks    and    incubators!      Love-charms    and 
automobiles ! 


CHAPTER  II 
Donna  Pruvidenza's  Lemon 

John  Bly  and  William  Bly  testified  that,  being  employed 
by  Bridget  Bishop  to  help  take  down  the  Cellar-wall  of  the 
old  House,  wherein  she  formerly  Lived,  they  did  in  Holes 
of  the  said  old  Wall  find  several  Poppets,  made  up  of  Rags 
and  Hogs  Brussels,  with  headless  Pins  in  them,  the  Points 
being  outward. — Cotton  Mather.  Wonders  of  the  Invisible 
World.  Testimony  against  Bridget  Bishop,  executed,  Salem, 
Mass.,  June  lo,  1692. 

On  the  eighth  of  May,  191 3,  there  appeared  in 
the  "Giornale  di  SiciHa,"  of  Palermo,  an  item  which 
I  abridge  as  follows: 

Yesterday  an  old  man  and  woman,  red-faced  and  out  of 
breath,  followed  by  a  crowd  of  excited  women,  burst  into 
the  procuratore's  office,  crying:  "We  have  found  it!  Look, 
Signore !     Look !" 

"See!"  shouted  the  man;  "see  what  killed  our  daughter!" 

The  man  laid  on  the  table  two  parcels,  one  containing 
locks  of  chestnut  hair,  the  other  something  made  of  wool. 

"Here  is  what  killed  my  daughter !"  screamed  the  woman, 
shuddering  with  terror.     "Here  is  the  witchcraft!" 

The  two  people  were  Emanuele  Malerba  and  his  wife  An- 
tonina  Bracciante,  whose  daughter  died  some  time  ago,  a 
few  months  after  marriage.  The  parents  have  suspected  the 
girl's  mother-in-law,  who  opposed  the  match,  of  making 
away  with  her  by  witchcraft. 

All  the  furniture,  including  the  marriage  bed,  which  the 

34 


DONNA  PRUVIDENZA'S  LEMON         35 

girl  had  carried  as  dowry  to  her  husband,  was  restored  in 
due  course  to  her  family;  and  the  old  mother,  picking  over 
the  mattress,  pricked  her  hand.  Searching  inside  the  bed, 
she  found  something  in  the  shape  of  a  doll  into  which  were 
stuck  a  large  needle,  two  safety  pins,  one  black  and  the 
other  white ;  and  two  other  safety  pins  on  each  of  which  was 
transfixed  a  seed  of  a  nespolo   (medlar). 

"Here  is  the  witchcraft!"  she  thought. 

As  soon  as  she  had  recovered  she  ran  to  tell  hef  husband 
and  the  neighbors.  The  quarter  was  thrown  into  commotion. 
To  die  at  eighteen  years  by  the  will  of  God  is  one  thing;  to 
perish  through  the  brutal  malignity  of  a  mother-in-law  is 
quite  another. 

One  of  the  women  explained :  "When  the  seed  dried,  poor 
Rusidda  died." 

"You  see,"  said  another,  pointing  to  the  doll  without 
daring  to  touch  it;  "there  is  a  seed  at  its  stomach,  which 
means  that  the  witchcraft  was  made  in  the  stomach  of 
Rusidda." 

"It  is  true,"  shuddered  the  mother;  "my  daughter  com- 
plained always  of  stomach  pains." 

The  two  old  people  denounced  the  fact  to  the  police,  and 
when  their  complaint  was  not  received  seriously,  they  betook 
themselves  to  the  public  prosecutor,  who  also  met  their  de- 
mand for  justice  with  good-natured  laughter. 

The  father  and  mother,  once  again  at  home,  allowed  a 
brave  young  neighbor  to  cut  open  the  image.  When  there 
came  out  more  nespoli  seeds  mixed  with  sawdust  they  re- 
turned to  their  belief  in  the  strange  doll's  errand  of  murder. 

"There  is  no  justice!"  they  raved,  glaring  at  the  by- 
standers; "there  is  no  justice!" 

There  were  thousands  of  years  when  learned 
judges  did  not  laugh  at  such  dolls,  and  ignorance 
does  not  yet  laugh  at  them. 

Twelve  hundred  years  before  Christ,  in  the  reign 
of  Rameses  III,  a  steward  of  the  king  was  prose- 
cuted  in  an   Egyptian   court  of  law   for  causing 


36  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

paralysis  to  men  and  women  by  making  wax  figures 
of  them.  As  late  as  1692  the  finding  of  "poppets" 
stuck  full  of  pins  was  admitted  in  Salem,  Mass., 
as  evidence  in  a  witch  trial.  Even  now,  maltreating 
an  image  to  harm  a  man,  if  not  actionable  in  court, 
and  if  not  as  usual  everywhere  as  it  may  be  in 
Amoy,  where  bamboo  and  paper  "substitutes  of  per- 
sons" are  sold  ready-made,  is  certainly  not  a  form 
of  imitative  magic  confined  to  the  primitive 
Bakongo. 

"Substitutes  of  persons"  are  not  uncommon  in 
Sicily;  but  oftener  than  into  a  human  figure,  simple 
like  those  of  Amoy,  or  elaborate  like  those  which 
thirteenth  century  black  art  modeled  with  the  fea- 
tures of  an  enemy  and  baptized  with  his  name, 
Sicilian  magic  stabs  its  jeers  or  its  threats  into  an 
egg  or  a  lemon,  a  potato  or  even  a  piece  of  meat. 

The  first  lemon  of  this  sort  that  ever  I  saw  in 
Taormina  was  a  "substitute"  of  Donna  Pruvidenza, 
and  I  had  sight  of  it,  as  it  were,  by  accident.  If 
Donna  Pruvidenza's  confessor  had  not  chanced  to 
be  at  a  church  convention  in  Malta,  she  would  have 
taken  the  "making"  straight  to  him,  after  the  man- 
ner of  the  more  devout,  to  beg  that  he  read  a  prayer 
over  it,  first  putting  on  his  stole.  It  was  the  absence 
of  the  priest  that  sent  her  to  the  kindly  family  who 
exorcised  the  lemon,  much  as  he  might  have  done, 
perhaps,  by  assuring  her  that  it  could  do  no  harm; 
and  who  suggested  that  she  bring  it  to  me. 

It  was  on  the  terrace  outside  the  dining  room 


DONNA  PRUVIDENZA'S  LEMON  37 

that  Donna  Pruvidenza  found  me;  and  no  sooner 
had  Pietro  set  a  chair  and  brought  a  second  coffee 
cup  than  I  saw  that  hers  was  no  ordinary  visit ;  for 
though  she  drank  with  appreciation  and  was  lavish 
of  morning  compHments,  her  manner  was  at  once 
uneasy  and  that  of  a  person  even  more  conscious 
than  prim  little  Donna  Pruvidenza  commonly  is  of 
her  own  importance. 

"Dear  little  Missy,"  she  said  when  the  coffee  was 
finished,  "can  we  not  withdraw  to  some  location 
less  public?  What  I  have  to  say  to  you  is  conse- 
quential." 

"Let  us  go  to  my  room,"  I  assented,  for  beyond 
the  long  window  stood  Pietro,  arranging  flowers  for 
luncheon  by  putting  into  each  glass  blossoms  of  as 
many  different  colors  as  possible. 

As  he  opened  the  door  for  our  retreat  I  saw  him 
glance  at  a  cloth  Donna  Pruvidenza  carried,  for  it 
hurt  Pietro's  sense  of  the  proprieties  that  parcels 
brought  to  me  were  apt  to  hold  gifts  of  carob  pods, 
dried  chestnuts  or  hard  Httle  salted  olives,  beneath 
the  dignity,  as  he  considered  it,  of  the  dining  room. 

In  the  quiet  of  my  chamber  Donna  Pruvidenza 
untied  the  kerchief  and  laid  it  on  the  table. 

"Ah,"  I  said,  seeing  among  the  folds  of  the  cloth 
the  shape  of  a  lemon;  "have  you  brought  me  some 
fruit?" 

"Cara  Signurinedda !"  There  was  horror  in 
Donna  Pruvidenza's  voice,  and  in  the  gesture  of 
her  hands. 


38  BY-PATHS   IN  SICILY 

Looking  closer,  I  saw  that  the  lemon  which  lay 
on  the  kerchief  was  livid  with  black  and  purple 
spots,  exuding  moisture  and  at  the  same  time  drying 
and  warping  out  of  shape.  Stuck  into  it  were  nails, 
the  rusty  shanks  of  which  were  beginning  to  show 
as  the  fruit  twisted,  shrinking  away  from  them. 

"What  is  that?  A  fattura?"  I  exclaimed,  guess- 
ing at  the  meaning  of  the  ugly  thing. 

The  parchment  of  Donna  Pruvidenza's  brown 
face  crinkled  with  indignation.  "It  is  a  brutal  sur- 
prise that  I  have  brought  the  Signurinedda !"  she 
ejaculated,  her  hands  denouncing  the  authors  of  the 
injury ;  "a  surprise  for  me,  an  orphan  who  have  no 
one  to  vindicate  me,  who  am  dedicated  to  the  service 
of  God,  and  who  look  for  nothing  but  his  graciosity 
and  the  protectorate  of  good  people!" 
"Where  did  it  come  from  ?"  I  questioned. 
Donna  Pruvidenza  began  her  account  of  the 
lemon  with  praise  of  her  grandparents.  While  in 
quaint,  high-flown  phrase  she  extolled  her  family, 
I  drew  the  kerchief  to  my  side  of  the  table.  "The 
Signurinedda  must  not  touch  the  'gghiommaru' !" 
she  interrupted  herself  to  warn  me. 

Why  instead  of  lemon  she  said  "gghiommaru," 
which  means  anything  round  like  a  ball  of  thread, 
I  can  only  guess.  Donna  Pruvidenza  never  uses  a 
common  word  when  she  can  find  an  uncommon  one. 
I  had  counted  three  needles,  seven  pins  and  five 
screws  piercing  the  lemon,  and  had  reached  the 
thirty -first  nail  when  she  came  to  her  own  childhood. 


DONNA  PRUVIDENZA'S  LEMON  39 

"I  called  my  progenitors  'father'  and  'mother/ 
as  did  Jesus  Christ,  and  morning  and  evening  I 
asked  their  blessing,  kissing  their  hands.  While 
in  the  days  of  to-day  the  very  off  scouring  of  the 
streets  scream  'Papal'  'Mamma!'  as  if  they  were 
ladies  and  gentlemen!  .  .  .  Madonna  mia!  The 
Signurinedda  must  not  touch  the  thing!" 

"Where  did  you  get  it  ?"  I  reiterated,  pushing  the 
kerchief  away  from  me. 

"It  is  of  the  devil !    Of  the  brute  beast !" 

Donna  Pruvidenza  would  not  be  hurried.  Half- 
listening  to  the  ills  of  life  that  had  reduced  a  person 
of  her  worth  to  the  one  inherited  room  that  was 
her  sole  remaining  property,  I  noticed  that  the  nails 
ranged  from  cobbler's  tacks  to  blacksmith's  sizes 
and  even  to  crooked  board  nails. 

In  spite  of  all  reassurances,  my  guest  was  ill  at 
ease ;  but  no  hoodoo  could  lessen  the  innocent  satis- 
faction with  which,  pursing  her  lips  and  arching 
her  brows  like  an  old-fashioned  New  England  spin- 
ster, she  pouted  out  the  river  of  her  talk  until  she 
came  at  last  to  the  great  discovery. 

Someone  had  hidden  the  lemon  in  her  oven. 
There  it  might  have  stayed,  she  said,  till  the  viaticum 
was  brought  and  the  passing  bell  was  tolled  for  her, 
since  she  never  had  flour  with  which  to  bake,  if 
she  had  not  touched  it  accidentally  while  reaching 
for  a  brush  she  kept  inside. 

Donna  Pruvidenza  is  old,  nearly  hump-backed 
and  half-blind.     She  is  poor,  short  of  temper  and 


40  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

sharp  of  tongue,  the  butt  of  many  a  brutal  jest; 
but  pride  and  an  applauding  conscience  brought  a 
smile  of  conviction  to  her  lips  as  she  said  she  must 
have  been  attacked  because  of  envy. 

"Dear  Missy,  I  am  envied,"  she  assured  me ;  "and 
where  there  is  envy  there  is  witchcraft,  or  there  is 
the  blow  of  the  eye." 

Someone  must  have  entered  her  room  while  she 
was  at  mass,  she  thought,  or  receiving  the  evening 
benediction;  some  evil-minded  neighbor  who  saw 
that,  even  if  she  was  poor  and  condemned  to  live 
in  a  bare  and  squalid  nest,  good  friends  when  they 
had  a  nice  dish  to  eat  often  sent  for  her  to  enjoy 
it  with  them.  Because  of  her  friends  some  envious 
person  must  have  said,  "How  she  is  respected !  This 
morning  So-and-So  has  sent  her  salted  codfish! 
Such-a-One  has  given  her  a  dress  for  the  festa  of 
San  Pancrazio!" 

There  flashed  through  my  mind  a  vision  of  the 
cast-off  dinner  dress  left  by  some  tourist  to  a  charity 
fund  in  Taormina,  which  Donna  Pruvidenza  had 
trailed  with  dignity  through  the  dust  of  the  Corso. 

"Dear  little  Missy,"  she  concluded,  "can  any  but 
the  envious  think  me  greedy  if  I  accept  now  and 
then  a  cup  of  broth  or  even  a  little  meat?  Surely 
a  person  worthy  of  respect,  an  orphan  without  father 
or  mother,  ought  not  to  suffer !" 

"The  family  you  mentioned,"  I  ventured,  "are 
not  your  friends?" 

"Bad  people !"    It  was  not  a  month  since  Donna 


DONNA  PRUVIDENZA'S  LEMON  41 

Pruvidenza  had  begged  her  confessor  to  tell  the 
man's  wife  that  if  she  must  throw  at  respectable 
neighbors  words  as  hard  as  dog-killing  stones,  at 
least  she  "should  throw  them  gently!  gently!  And 
'this  was  the  answer — to  hide  in  her  house  a  charm, 
as  if  she  were  a  witch! 

"It  is  not  that  I  fear!"  she  protested.  "Not  a 
leaf  moves  without  the  will  of  God;  but" — she 
pushed  her  chair  farther  from  the  kerchief — "who 
would  not  shudder  at  the  malignity  that  fills  a  lemon 
with  nails?" 

Through  the  open  window  there  came  the  cry 
of  a  peddler !  "Sixty  brass  pins  for  a  soldo !  Four 
yards  of  tape  for  a  soldo!  Look,  females;  Look 
and  buy !  *Tis  a  sin  to  leave  them !" 

"Sixty  pins  for  a  soldo !"  groaned  Donna  Pruvi- 
denza ;  "and  this  is  stuffed  with  nails !" 

Her  emphasis  led  me  to  ask,  "Are  nails  worse 
than  pins  ?" 

"Signurinedda !"  Donna  Pruvidenza  was  shocked. 
"Nails  fastened  our  Lord  to  the  cross!  Never  be- 
fore have  I  seen  a  'gghiommaru'  filled  with  nails !" 

In  the  end,  Donna  Pruvidenza  gave  me  the  lemon. 
It  was  not  likely  to  harm  me,  she  said,  since  the 
sending  was  not  against  me;  and  as  to  herself,  she 
was  not  afraid,  though  it  would  be  well  if  I  would 
promise  not  to  throw  it  away  but  to  burn  it,  first 
taking  out  the  nails.  These  points  settled,  she  pulled 
up  her  rusty  black  shawl  around  her  shoulders  and 
trotted  away — a  pathetic  little  figure,  pursing  her 


42  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

lips  and  smiling  with  the  discreet  happiness  of  those 
conscious  of  well-doing. 

At  the  door  she  turned  to  say,  "Cara  Signuri- 
nedda,  let  all  this  remain  between  you  and  me." 

I  had  no  thought  of  betraying  Donna  Pruvidenza's 
secret,  but  an  hour  later  when  I  returned  to  my 
room  the  box  into  which  I  had  shut  the  lemon  was 
on  the  floor,  and  Tidda  the  Bat,  dusting  cloth  in 
hand,  was  gazing  at  the  evil  looking  fruit  with 
horrified  curiosity.  "I  did  not  touch  it,"  she  said 
in  explanation;  "it  went  down." 

Tidda  'a  Taddarita  has  a  way  of  bumping  about 
the  room  as  aimlessly  as  her  namesake,  the  bat. 
This  morning,  whether  dusting  or  bringing  water, 
or  lowering  canvas  screens  against  the  May  sun, 
her  motions  were  even  more  hit-or-miss  than  usual. 
She  did  not  pick  up  the  lemon,  and  she  could  not 
keep  her  eyes  away  from  it;  she  revolved  around 
it,  striking  against  whatever  stood  in  the  way.  It 
was  not  until  she  stood  at  the  open  door,  her  tasks 
done,  that  she  said,  turning  for  once  her  brown  and 
peaked  face  in  my  direction : 

"Scusi ;  was  that  made  against  the  Signurinedda?" 

"No,"  I  answered,  stopping  to  pick  it  up. 

"Jesus,  Joseph  and  Mary!  Jesus,  Joseph  and 
Mary!"  Tidda  crossed  herself  hastily,  backing  into 
the  hallway.  "For  the  love  of  God !  Little  Missy, 
don't  touch  the  bewitched  thing!" 

I  dropped  the  lemon  into  its  box,  "But  since  it 
is  not  against  me " 


DONNA  PRUVIDENZA'S  LEMON         43 

"For  the  love  of  God !"  Tidda's  face  worked  con- 
vulsively. "One  sees  that  the  Signurinedda  does 
not  understand  such  things !" 

Tidda  is  a  forlorn  creature  with  high  red  cheek- 
bones, shiny  little  African  eyes  and  a  low  forehead 
covered  with  black  hair.  By  trade  she  is  a  carrier 
of  water.  Morning,  noon  and  night,  an  earthen 
quartara  on  her  head,  her  small  black-clad  figure 
comes  to  our  door.  Sometimes  when  the  domestic 
machinery  stalls  I  find  her  at  work  inside. 

Shutting  the  door  with  a  blow  of  her  broom,  she 
poured  out  a  flood  of  tales.  Years  ago  there  was 
a  good  woman  in  Taormina,  she  said,  who  used  to 
give  food  to  the  prisoners  in  the  jail.  One  day  when 
this  woman  felt  ill,  a  woman  in  the  jail  who  was 
a  witch  asked  her  many  questions  and  then  begged 
her  to  bring  an  egg  when  she  came  back  next  day. 
The  sick  woman  brought  a  fresh  egg,  laid  by  one 
of  her  own  hens ;  but  when  the  witch  broke  the  shell 
it  was  full  of  broken  glass.  The  sick  woman  at  once 
felt  well. 

"That  was  long  ago,"  I  commented. 

"But  it's  not  six  months,"  returned  Tidda,  "since 
my  chum  found  thorns  in  an  orange  stuck  into  the 
wall  beside  her  door;  and  who  knows  what  might 
have  happened  if  she  had  not  asked  the  priest  to 
bless  it?" 

"At  least  nothing  did  happen,"  I  suggested. 
"Someone  is  ringing." 

"Something  happened  to  Vitu  'u  Moddu,"  Tidda 


44  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

persisted,  shaking  her  head  impatiently  as  a  bell 
sounded  from  a  neighboring  room. 

"The  Signurinedda  knows  Vitu  the  Soft,  steward 
for  the  English  in  the  villa?  Two  years  ago  Vitu 
fell  so  ill  that  no  medicine  could  help  him.  Month 
after  month  he  lay  groaning  in  bed  till  one  day  a 
hunter  thought  he  saw  a  bird  fly  into  a  hole  in  the 
rock  above  Vitu's  house.  The  Signurinedda  knows 
the  place,  under  the  hill  on  the  path  to  Monte 
Ziretto  ?  So  the  hunter  climbed  up  and  put  his  hand 
into  the  hole;  but  it  was  not  a  nest  of  sparrows 
that  he  pulled  out;  it  was  the  head  of  a  kid  full  of 
pins.  Vitu's  wife  called  a  priest  to  undo  the  spell, 
and  Vitu  has  been  as  well  ever  since  as  he  was 
before." 

Again  the  bell  rang,  but  Tidda  had  plunged  into 
the  case  of  an  uncle  saved  from  death  by  a  witch- 
finder's  discovery  of  a  thorn-filled  potato.  From 
the  uncle  she  jumped  to  the  tale  of  a  bedridden 
woman  who  walked  as  soon  as  her  son  had  dug 
in  a  place  pointed  out  by  a  passing  stranger.  "Your 
ills  are  before  your  door,"  the  stranger  said,  and 
indeed  they  found  the  dried  liver  of  an  animal. 

"Bad  people  do  these  things,"  she  concluded,  as 
a  third  time  the  bell  jangled;  "witches  who  ought  to 
die  like  dogs !  Why  does  the  Signurinedda  handle 
things  made  by  witches?" 

After  luncheon  a  fear  that  Tidda  might  gossip 
about  the  lemon  was  confirmed  when  Pietro  detained 
me  in  the  dining-room  to  see  a  photograph  of  the 


DONNA  PRUVIDENZA'S  LEMON  45 

palace  on  Staten  Island  inhabited  by  his  brother. 
The  "palazzo,"  which  looked  like  a  brick  tenement, 
was  distant  from  New  York  one  little  hour  by  train- 
in-air,  steamship  and  train-of-fire ;  and  to  it  he 
wished  to  send  a  package  for  which  would  I  please 
write  the  address? 

Pietro  did  not  approach  abruptly  the  topic  of 
Donna  Pruvidenza's  lemon.  The  parcel  was  to  con- 
tain razors,  for  Pietro's  brother  is  a  barber,  and 
in  New  York  razors  cost  too  much  money.  There 
were  to  be  stockings  knitted  by  his  signora — Pietro's 
wife  is  his  "lady" — and  a  loaf  of  baked  "ricotta," 
which  is  curd  sun-dried  and  browned  in  an  oven. 
For  his  brother's  children  there  was  a  quantity  of 
a  hard  almond  sweet  called  "torrone." 

It  was  while  we  were  planning  the  packing  of 
these  articles  that  Pietro  began  a  gently  superior 
discourse  on  Tidda's  cowardice  and  my  curiosity 
as  to  lemons.  A  lemon  turned  into  a  pincushion 
was  only  a  lemon.  He  ought  to  know,  for  had  he 
not  paid  more  than  four  hundred  lire  for  the  finding 
of  a  piece  of  meat  stuck  full  of  nails?  And  had  it 
done  him  any  good  to  have  the  nails  taken  out  ?  Not 
a  particle!  Once  he  had  believed  such  foolishness, 
but  now  he  knew  better. 

"Four  hundred  lire !"  I  exclaimed ;  for  Pietro  is  a 
plodding  man  of  fifty,  careful  of  his  money. 

"Four  hundred  lire!"  he  repeated  with  mild 
cynicism;  was  he  not  then  a  judge  of  such  matters? 

The  thing  had  happened  some  years  earlier,  he 


46  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

said,  when  he  had  given  up  his  profession  as  a 
waiter,  because  his  signora  had  tired  of  starching 
shirts  and  collars.  "A  waiter,"  he  exclaimed,  with 
a  glance  at  his  Hnen,  "must  always  be  clean." 

So  he  had  opened  a  shop  for  the  sale  of  salted 
codfish,  oil,  wine  and  macaroni — such  things  as 
people  need.  But  trade  was  not  good,  and  to  make 
matters  worse  a  great  oil  jar  leaked  one  night,  and 
the  oil  ran  over  the  floor  and  even  into  the  street. 
Now  to  spill  oil  is  a  bad  sign,  and  for  days  his  lady 
was  ill  with  worry. 

Just  at  this  time  there  came  to  their  door  one 
morning  a  woman  who  begged  food.  When  she 
had  eaten  and  rested,  the  poor  woman  seemed  grate- 
ful, and  offered  to  search  the  house  for  the  evil 
influence  that  interfered  with  sales.  When  he  and 
his  signora  understood  that  she  had  such  power 
they  agreed  gladly.  So  for  days  she  searched,  eat- 
ing always  of  the  best,  until  at  last  she  declared  the 
place  was  haunted  by  a  demon. 

"We  believed  her,"  said  Pietro  with  melancholy 
scorn  of  past  credulity,  "because,  though  we  never 
saw  anything,  we  often  heard  a  'pum !  pum !'  " 

"E-e-e — I  think  now,"  he  added  with  hesitant 
utterance  that  was  not  yet  a  stammer,  "that  she  may 
have  made  the  noise  herself." 

The  woman  carried  away  a  suit  of  Pletro's  cloth- 
ing, which  she  said  must  be  burned.  "It  was  a  good 
suit,"  he  sighed  reminiscently. 

One  night  she  led  him  and  his  lady  to  a  lonely 


DONNA  PRUVIDENZA'S  LEMON  47 

place  behind  a  church,  when  she  made  them  dig  at 
the  roots  of  a  clump  of  fichi  d'India.  The  charm 
was  buried  there,  she  said ;  but  they  found  nothing. 
The  next  night  she  took  them  down  to  the  sea  and 
walked  into  the  water  until  it  reached  her  knees. 
There  she  searched  a  long  time,  and  when  she  came 
back  she  brought  a  bag  that  held  a  piece  of  meat 
full  of  broken  glass  and  nails.  This,  she  said,  was 
the  source  of  their  misfortunes;  some  rival  had 
pierced  the  flesh  as  if  it  had  been  their  bodies. 

The  woman  took  the  nails  out  of  the  meat  and 
burned  it.  Then  she  sprinkled  salt  and  water  in  the 
house,  repeating  charms.  She  demanded  much 
money  because  she  had  found  the  charm  in  the  sea. 

"That  proved  her  clever?"  I  questioned. 

"Yes,"  conceded  Pietro;  "at  least  she  said  so." 

"Of  course,"  confirmed  Tidda,  who  had  bumped 
into  the  room  and  was  picking  up  dishes.  "The 
Signurinedda  sees  that  a  charm  hidden  in  a  house 
may  perhaps  be  found  quickly,  and  so  do  little 
mischief;  but  what  is  lost  in  the  sea  only  a  person 
of  great  power  can  find.  It  goes  on  working  until 
it  kills  the  one  against  whom  it  was  made.  For  a 
charm  thrown  into  the  sea  there  is  no  pardon ;  God 
cannot  forgive  such  wickedness." 

"Business  was  no  better,"  said  Pietro  skeptically, 
comforting  himself  with  bites  at  a  medlar.  "I  gave 
up  the  shop  and  came  back  to  waiting." 

Before  the  day  was  done  I  took  the  lemon  to  the 
padrona's    sewing    room,    begging    her    to    check 


48  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

Tidda's  tongue,  though  I  had  no  faith  that  our 
silence  would  prevent  the  spreading  of  Donna 
Pruvidenza's  news. 

The  mistress  of  our  house  is  so  wise  in  the  lore 
of  the  people  that  whatever  of  interest  I  hear  is 
submitted  to  her  judgment.  Looking  up  from  her 
mending,  she  regarded  curiously  the  discolored 
lemon,  which  was  still  leaking  juice  and  bulging  and 
shrinking  around  the  puncture  of  the  rusty  nails. 
Poking  it  with  her  plump  thimble  finger,  she  told 
me  fresh  tales  of  haps  and  mishaps  with  charms. 
Often  as  she  had  heard  of  such  things,  never  before, 
she  said,  had  she  seen  one. 

"But  fear  of  witchcraft,"  I  queried,  "is  not  yet 
forgotten?" 

The  padrona  looked  long  toward  the  courtyard 
beyond  the  terrace,  where  her  husband  and  the  cook 
were  bowling.  **Fear  of  lemons  like  this,  yes,"  she 
said  finally.  "If  a  woman's  neighbors  think  her  a 
witch  and  threaten  her  with  this  counter-witchcraft, 
one  sees  the  threat  is  harmless,  because  such  people 
do  not  know  the  proper  words  to  use  when  sticking 
in  the  nails." 

"What  proper  words?"  demanded  Maria,  the 
laundress,  checking  her  song,  "The  sun  which  goes 
to-day  returns  to-morrow,"  as  she  came  in  from 
the  terrace  with  an  armload  of  folded  towels. 

Maria  told  us  the  tale  of  a  girl  who  once  picked 
up  a  lemon  from  the  ground,  when  teased  about  her 
betrothed,  and  in  a  joke  began  pricking  it  with 


Door  Charms  for  Evil  Eye 


DONNA  PRUVIDENZA'S  LEMON         49 

thorns.  "This  in  his  head !"  she  said.  "This  in  his 
arm!  This  in  his  leg!"  The  girl  was  washing  at 
the  riverside,  and  no  sooner  had  she  and  the  others 
reached  home  with  their  bundles  of  dry  clothes  than 
she  heard  that  her  betrothed  had  come  from  reaping 
seized  with  terrible  pains.  Running  back  to  her 
washing  stone,  she  found  the  lemon  and  pulled  out 
the  thorns.    Next  morning  her  lover  was  well. 

"What  words  did  that  girl  know?"  laughed  Maria, 
as  she  took  up  her  song  again  and  started  towards 
the  garden  to  pick  towels  from  the  flowering  bushes. 
"The  thorns  are  the  thing!" 

In  Sicilian  magic  few  acts  are  performed  without 
accompanying  incantations.  The  padrona's  re- 
minder, therefore,  of  the  need  of  words  decided 
me  not  to  touch  the  nails  until  I  knew  whether  their 
extraction  required  a  formula.  I  did  not  hope  to 
learn  the  putting  in  of  nails.  "Release,  yes;  bind, 
no,"  is  a  saying  in  the  mouth  of  every  adept.  But 
if  to  black  magic  no  one  would  own,  in  the  white 
magic  of  undoing  a  spell  someone  might  instruct 
me. 

Gna  Angela,  called  the  Fox,  who  censes  houses  to 
drive  out  the  evil  eye,  and  Gna  Vanna,  the  Grass- 
hopper-eater, who  claims  uncanny  powers,  because 
of  her  protection  by  the  "ladies,"  were  the  women 
I  planned  to  consult.  I  should  not  have  thought 
of  Za  Tonietta,  whose  dealings  with  the  unknown 
are  more  limited,  had  I  not  come  across  her  next 


so  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

morning,  crouched  in  a  recess  of  the  ivy-clad  wall 
near  my  own  door.  Indeed,  at  first  nothing  was 
farther  from  my  thoughts  than  magic,  for  Za 
Tonietta's  grizzled  hair  stood  up  in  moist  rings,  her 
kerchief  was  open  at  the  throat,  and  she  was  gasp- 
ing "As  God  wills,"  bent  double  with  asthma. 

I  sat  down  beside  her  in  the  flickering  shade  of 
the  pepper  trees,  and  after  a  while,  when  the  strug- 
gle for  breath  became  less  violent,  she  told  me  that 
she  was  on  her  way  to  a  house  where  a  death  had 
occurred,  to  sprinkle  holy  water,  which  she  had 
taken  from  the  three  fonts  of  the  Matrice,  the 
mother  church.  In  her  lap  there  lay  a  bottle  which 
still  carried  a  Worcestershire-sauce  label. 

While  we  rested  there  came  in  sight  a  swarm  of 
children  playing  a  favorite  game  of  our  street — 
conducting  a  saint's  procession.  Down  the  winding 
road,  carried  on  the  shoulders  of  ivy-crowned  boys 
and  girls,  advanced  a  toy  Vara,  adorned  with 
candles  and  flowers,  and  holding,  instead  of  a  church 
image,  a  rude  print  of  Sant'  Alfio  and  his  brothers. 
Ahead  marched  a  tiny  boy  ringing  a  bell  to  stop  and 
start  the  bearers.  Behind  flocked  children  shouting 
vivas. 

"As  God  wills !"  wheezed  Za  Tonietta,  when  the 
procession,  to  which  she  had  hardly  lifted  her  eyes, 
had  gone  its  way.  Sant'  Alfio  was  a  powerful  saint, 
but  it  was  to  our  own  San  Pancraziu,  great  father 
of  the  people,  that  she  prayed: 


DONNA  PRUVIDENZA'S  LEMON  51 

1  To  the  ten  thousandth  time  we  raise 
San  Pancraziu's  high  praise; 
We  praise  him  daily  when  we  wake, 
Who  Taormina  safe  doth  make, 

she  recited,  smiling  drearily.  She  had  prayed  much 
to  be  well,  but  at  night  she  could  not  lie  in  her  bed. 

In  Za  Tonietta's  windowless  house  asthma  is  not 
as  God,  but  as  building  custom  wills.  Waiting  till 
she  dragged  herself  to  her  feet,  I  rose  also;  and  then, 
remembering  my  errand,  showed  her  the  lemon. 

The  result  startled  me.  At  sight  of  the  shrunken, 
ominous-looking  thing  Za  Tonietta  dropped  back 
into  her  seat,  clutching  at  the  bag  of  amulets  pinned 
under  her  dress,  and  racked  by  a  spasm  of  coughing 
that  shook  her  bowed  old  figure.  When  at  last  she 
panted  that  the  lemon  was  "to  die!  to  die!"  I  had 
had  more  proof  than  I  liked  that  it  could  do  mis- 
chief. 

As  Za  Tonietta  moved  wavering  down  the  road 
with  her  holy  water,  and  I  turned  towards  Gna 
Vanna  and  the  village,  I  could  think  of  nothing  but 
the  cruelty  of  fear  which  ages  of  life  had  not  driven 
out  of  so  radiant  a  world. 

In  the  morning  sun  the  gray-green  mountain  wall 
above  the  town  drew  so  close  that  I  could  follow  the 
movements  of  men  and  goats  up  and  down  the  zig- 
zags, to  and  from  the  old  castle  of  Taormina,  and 
the  church  of  the  Madonna  of  the  rock. 

^A  la  decimila  vota 
Lu  ludamu  San  Pancraziu; 
Lu  ludamu  la  matina 
Ca  prutiggi  Taormina. 


52  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

Over  the  gray  walls  between  which  winds  our 
road,  purple  flower  clusters  hung  from  the  patience 
trees.  From  cypress  and  cedar,  and  even  from  tall 
eucalyptus  dropped  curtains  of  honeysuckle.  Olives 
were  blossoming  green,  and  the  lemon  gardens  in 
white  bloom  scented  the  air. 

The  village  was  out  of  doors.  As  trees  gave  way 
to  gray-white  houses,  I  came  up  with  Cola  the  rope- 
maker,  who  had  planted  his  wheel  in  a  shaded  spot 
and  was  rubbing  down  yellow  lengths  of  cord  with 
halved  lemons. 

Beside  their  doorstones  were  the  gossips,  wash- 
ing, knitting,  spinning,  making  nets  and  nursing 
babies.  Men,  too,  had  brought  out  chairs  to  the 
cobblestones,  where  they  plaited  fishtraps,  cobbled 
shoes  or,  seated  on  the  ground,  twisted  with  fingers 
and  toes  store  of  rush  twine  against  the  wheat 
binding.  Even  the  tinsmith  had  littered  the  street 
with  petroleum  tins  to  be  knocked  down  to  usable 
sheets  of  metal. 

I  found  Gna  Vanna  standing  over  a  wandering 
tinker  who  was  drilling  holes  in  the  fragments  of 
a  thick  earthen  basin.  "Have  a  care!"  she  warned 
the  swart  young  Calabrian,  as  he  raised  and  lowered 
the  rude  cross-bow  contrivance  that  turned  the  point 
of  his  drill.  "Have  a  care !"  she  repeated  while  he 
patched  together  the  huge  dish,  straddling  wire  pins 
from  hole  to  hole  and  poking  in  cement  as  a  final 
operation. 

Vanna  looked  cross,  and  as  I  stepped  indoors  to 


DONNA  PRUVIDENZA'S  LEMON  53 

avoid  the  tilt  over  pennies  for  the  mending,  I  saw 
that  an  upset  house  had  perhaps  upset  her  temper. 
The  once  smoke-blackened  walls  were  wet  with 
whitewash,  and  in  the  middle  of  the  spattered  floor 
were  heaped  goods  and  chattels. 

"Badly  have  I  done!"  she  fretted,  bringing  in 
the  big  dish  and  setting  it  down  anxiously.  "The 
house  was  too  dirty,  but  five  lire  they  made  me  pay ! 
Bad  Christians!  They  broke  the  basin,  and  in  a 
week  smoke  and  flies  will  make  things  worse  than 
before!" 

There  is  a  vent  above  Vanna's  fireplace  which 
smoke  never  finds. 

Without  the  name  of  its  owner  the  charm  did  not 
soothe  Gna  Vanna.  As  I  took  the  cover  off  its 
box  she  signed  an  impatient  cross  or  two,  looking 
from  it  to  me  with  irritation.  The  victim  must  be 
suffering  pains  in  the  ears,  eyes  and  stomach,  she 
asserted ;  and  whose  was  the  blame  if  I  refused  to 
take  her  to  the  house,  so  that  she  might  drive  out 
the  witchcraft  by  her  prayers  ? 

"Vossia  knows  that  I  understand  these  things," 
she  pursued  with  the  air  of  an  unappreciated  genius, 
planting  the  tip  of  a  skinny  forefinger  in  the  middle 
of  her  forehead.  "There  is  no  one  else  who  under- 
stands them.  Let  them  call  me  witch!  Vossia 
knows  that  I  am  respected  because  I  have  broken 
many  evil  charms." 

Whether  in  the  end  she  would  have  relented  and 
taken  out  the  nails,  I  cannot  tell;  for  as  she  jerked 


54  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

a  chair  from  the  piled  up  furniture,  there  crawled 
from  some  cave  underneath  her  grandson  Micciu 
and  the  white-faced  kid,  Sciuriddu.  Fresh  almond 
leaves  satisfied  "Little  Flower" ;  but  Micciu  ranged 
the  floor,  dragging  the  kid  by  the  red  rag  at  his  neck, 
scrambling  after  a  dish  of  raw,  shining  fish  and 
tugging  at  his  one  garment,  a  dingy  little  shift. 

"Nanna,"  he  teased,  "take  it  off,  grandma!  It's 
hot!" 

"Fui!  Fui!  Run  away!"  scolded  Vanna;  and  the 
child,  seizing  a  fish,  darted  towards  the  street,  bump- 
ing into  a  fleshy,  middle-aged  woman  who  appeared 
in  the  doorway. 

At  sight  of  me,  Comare  Alfia,  Vanna's  sister-in- 
law,  came  forward  with  hesitation.  Lowering  her- 
self into  a  chair,  she  sat  in  heavy  silence,  her  round, 
not  unkindly  face  set  in  lines  of  dissatisfaction.  My 
chance  was  gone,  and  I  was  rising  to  yield  the  field 
when,  responding  little  by  little  to  complaints  about 
the  price  of  whitewashing,  Comare  Alfia  gathered 
confidence,  and  put  into  Vanna's  hand  a  thick 
knotted  cord  braided  of  red  and  green  rags. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Vanna,  glancing  sharply  from 
the  braid  to  the  lumpy  face  of  her  sister-in-law. 

"I  want  to  know,"  answered  Comare  Alfia;  "what 
is  it?" 

Her  suspicious  eyes  fixed  on  the  cord,  Comare 
Alfia  explained  that  she  had  found  it  an  hour  before 
among  the  vine  cuttings  with  which  she  was  feeding 
the  fire  in  her  oven.     It  might  be  harmless,  but 


DONNA  PRUVIDENZA'S  XEMON  55 

she  could  not  feel  safe  unless  Vanna  undid  the 
knots,  for  her  head  ached  and  her  stomach  felt  as 
if  it  also  were  tied  in  knots.  It  was  just  such  a 
sending  that  two  years  earlier  had  killed  her  hus- 
band, and  she  knew  well  the  wretches  who  had 
twisted  the  spell.  On  that  very  street  they  lived, 
not  many  doors  away.  They  had  quarreled  with 
her  husband  over  the  price  of  two  hens,  and  now 
perhaps  they  had  braided  this  cord  to  twist  and  tie 
her  vitals  also.  The  law  ought  to  punish  such 
assassins. 

Gna  Vanna  studied  the  braid  which  had  been 
made  the  more  deadly  by  three  knots  drawn  tight. 
"It  may  be,"  she  agreed,  "a  fattura." 

Restored  to  good  humor  by  her  sister-in-law's 
openly  expressed  dependence,  Gna  Vanna  asked  me 
to  show  the  lemon.  At  sight  of  the  nails  Comare 
Alfia  displayed  something  like  animation,  while  I 
tried  to  look  wise  over  the  charms.  A  fellow  feeling 
being  thus  established,  I  was  allowed  to  stay  while 
Vanna  conjured  the  harm  that  might  have  been 
planned  against  her  sister-in-law's  bowels. 

First  muttering  formulas  of  which  "name  of 
God"  was  all  I  heard,  she  picked  at  the  first  knot 
until  she  had  loosened  and  untied  it,  repeating  the 
while: 

Hair  of  God  and  Mary's  hair, 
Be  called  home  this  witchcraft  sair! 
Let  there  be  praised  and  thanked 
The  most  holy  Sacrament 


56  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

And  God's  great  Mother  Mary 

And  all  the  heavenly  company. 

In   the  name  of   God   and   for  Jesus*   sake, 

Let  this  woman  no  harm  take. 

Comare  Alfia,  who  sat  hunched  forward  in  her 
chair  by  Vanna's  side,  paid  dolorous  attention  as 
Vanna  smoothed  the  kinky  strands  and  passed  to 
the  second  knot,  reciting  while  she  tugged  with 
persistent  fingers, 

The  ass,  the  ass,  he  came  on  feet  four; 
It  was  St.  Mark  on  his  back  he  bore. 
In  the  name  of  God,  for  St.  Pancras'  sake. 
Let  this  woman  no  harm  take. 

The  third  knot  was  more  difficult.  "The  knife !" 
called  Gna  Vanna  impatiently.    "Micciu,  the  knife !" 

Micciu,  who  had  strayed  back  to  the  doorstone, 
brought  her  from  the  table  drawer  a  knife  and  the 
loaf  he  found  with  it.  "Always  bread  in  your 
mouth!  Devil's  face!"  she  ejaculated,  kissing  him 
as  she  cut  a  big  piece.  Then  slashing  the  knot,  she 
proceeded : 

Four  loaves  and  four  fishes. 
Out,  I  say,  with  ill  wishes ! 
Bright  angel  of  the  good  light. 
In  three  words  I  break  evil's  might. 
In  the  name  of  God  and  of  St.  John, 
If  there's  harm,  I  cut;  't  is  gone. 

While  Vanna  unbraided  the  strands  she  continued 
to  recite  charms  for  good  measure.    Comare  Alfia 


DONNA  PRUVIDENZA'S  LEMON  57 

brightened  enough  to  twitch  her  white  kerchief 
straight,  so  that  the  knot  came  under  her  chin. 
When  I  left  the  house  she  was  gathering  the  red 
and  green  rags  to  burn,  and  Gna  Vanna  was  re- 
peating, 

2  Star  of  the  Eastern  light, 
Never  back  but  forward  bright. 
To  the  three,  to  the  three,  to  the  three, 
And  even  to  the  twenty-four. 
Now  this  witchcraft  is  no  more. 
In  Jesus'  name  I  undo  the  charm ; 
■Never  more  shall  it  work  harm. 

Though  Gna  Vanna  had  recited  nothing  over  the 
lemon,  I  felt  sure  that,  if  I  had  been  able  to  take 
her  to  Donna  Pruvidenza,  her  procedure,  as  to  the 
nails,  would  not  have  differed  in  essentials  from 
her  conjuring  of  the  knots.  It  was  to  get,  if  pos- 
sible, a  different  method  that  I  set  out  in  the  after- 
noon to  find  Gna  Angela,  the  Fox,  who  is  perhaps 
wiser  in  old  lore  than  Gna  Vanna. 

May  in  Sicily  is  summer  and  the  town  was  taking 
its  siesta.  Shops  were  shut  as  I  passed  through 
the  Corso,  streets  empty.    Nothing  stirred  but  dart- 

2  Stidda  di  lu  luveri, 
Veni  avanti  e  mai  arreri ! 
A  li  tri,  a  li  tri,  a  li  tri 
E  sinu  a  li  ventiquattru ; 
Ssu  malunatu  e  sfasciatu. 
Pi  lu  nomu  di  Gesu, 
Sciogghiu  ssa  fimmina; 
E  nun  mi  avi  nenti  chiu. 


S8  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

ing  lizards.  Even  the  blackbirds  were  silent  in  the 
many  cages  ranged  against  the  house  walls.  But 
while  I  climbed  to  the  high  under-the-castle  quarter 
of  Taormina,  a  little  breeze  began  to  wake  the  sea. 
Its  effect  was  magical.  •  Heavy  black  wooden  doors 
opened,  and  from  under  round-arched  doorways 
came  women  carrying  water  jars  that  lay  slantwise 
on  their  heads  as  they  started  towards  the  fountains. 
Women  appeared  on  little  iron  balconies  taking  in 
dry  clothes  from  long  cane  poles.  The  tottering  old 
people  at  the  Hospice  crept  out  on  their  terrace. 
Sounds  arose  of  chatter  and  singing. 

From  a  distance  as  I  approached  Gna  Angela's 
house  I  saw  her  across  the  way  from  her  door, 
sitting  at  her  netting  beside  the  wall  towards  the 
sea.  She  was  alone;  but  even  while  I  hurried  for- 
ward, there  appeared  two  women  coming  over  the 
hill  from  an  opposite  direction.  They  reached  her 
first.  There  was  a  moment  of  gesticulation;  and 
then,  picking  up  the  chair  in  which  she  had  been 
sitting  and  another  over  which  were  folded  the 
brown  lengths  of  her  net,  Gna  Angela  crossed  the 
road  with  the  newcomers. 

It  was  too  late  to  retreat ;  but  instead  of  following 
the  three  into  the  house,  I  sat  down  on  the  door- 
stone,  watching  the  chickens  that  old  Zu  Paulu, 
Gna  Angela's  husband,  was  taking  one  by  one  from 
under  a  tall,  rush-woven  cage  and  protecting  from 
evil  eye  by  tying  red  rags  under  their  pinfeathery 
wings. 


DONNA  PRUVIDENZA'S  LEMON  59 

The  two  women,  who  looked  like  mother  and 
daughter,  were  telling  their  errand  when  Gna  'An- 
gela came  to  the  door  to  wish  me  good-day ;  and  so 
it  chanced  that  I  overheard  their  anxiety  about  the 
younger  one's  husband.  Desperately  ill  he  was,  the 
mother  said,  in  New  York.  The  news  had  come  a 
week  before,  and  now  for  seven  days  they  had  had 
no  letter.  Was  he  getting  better  or  was  he  dead? 
Would  Gna  Angela  tell  them? 

More  than  once  I  had  heard  Gna  Angela,  the 
Fox,  pronounce  on  the  health  of  absent  relatives, 
so  that  her  agreement  to  this  request  did  not  sur- 
prise me. 

Drawing  her  chair  into  the  breeze  at  the  doorway, 
she  sat  almost  at  my  side,  clasping  her  hands  about 
her  knees  and  composing  herself  to  immobility. 
Little  by  little  her  faded  eyes  became  veiled,  and 
her  queer  animated  old  face  put  on  a  mask  devoid 
of  expression.  Surreptitiously  I  pulled  out  a  pencil, 
for  I  guessed  that  she  would  recite  the  so-called 
"paternoster  of  San  GiuUano,"  protector  of  travelers. 
Presently,  crossing  herself,  she  muttered  "Jesus, 
St.  Joseph  and  Mary!"  and  then  words  began  to 
pour  from  her  lips  in  a  rapid,  colorless  stream. 
Faster  and  faster,  becoming  almost  inarticulate,  ran 
the  river  of  sound.  It  seemed  a  long  time  before, 
suddenly  as  it  had  begun,  the  flow  stopped.  The 
gray  old  figure  straightened  itself.  Gna  Angela's 
eyes  brightened,  and  her  half-opened  mouth  snapped 
shut  with  a  look  of  satisfaction. 


6o  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

"Your  spouse  is  well,"  she  said  to  the  younger 
woman.    "You  will  soon  hear  from  him." 

"Are  you  sure?"  the  two  demanded.  There  fol- 
lowed a  hubbub  of  questions. 

"It  is  certain,"  replied  Gna  Angela  in  the  tone 
of  one  who  finishes  a  simple  matter.  "It  is  not  I 
who  tell  you;  it  is  San  Giuliano  himself,  the  mirac- 
ulous saint  who  never  mistakes.  Did  you  not  hear  ? 
The  words  came  quick  and  smoothly ;  I  said  it  three 
times  through  without  missing  a  syllable.  It  is  San 
Giuliano  himself  who  says  it:  Your  spouse  is  well." 

As  Gna  Angela  spoke  she  rose,  dismissing  her 
guests.  Old,  sinewy,  a  little  bent,  she  seemed,  as 
she  leaned  against  a  doorpost,  indifferent  as  a  sybil 
to  the  doubts  of  the  ignorant.     • 

"Come,  daughter,"  she  said,  touching  my  shoulder 
to  indicate  the  turn  of  another  client. 

The  women  were  impressed.  Dropping  coppers 
into  her  hand,  they  came  out  of  the  house,  bidding 
a  cheerful  good-by  to  Zu  Paulu  as  they  trudged 
down  the  road,  two  black  figures  in  the  white  Sicilian 
sunshine. 

"Come,  daughter,"  repeated  Gna  Angela,  inviting 
me  into  the  bare  little  room. 

By  repute  Gna  Angela  is  a  witch,  able  to  call  up 
spirits  of  the  dead;  but  the  trade,  if  such  it  is,  yields 
her  little  more  than  the  bed,  the  bench  and  the  chest 
of  the  old  song  of  the  dancing  master: 


Trois  pas  du  cote  du  banc 
Et  trois  pas  du  cote  du  lit; 


DONNA  PRUVIDENZA'S  LEMON  6i 

Trois  pas  du  cote  du  cofifre 
Et  trois  pas — revenez  ici. 

Driving  out  a  hen  from  the  heap  of  stones  that 
served  her  as  fireplace,  Gna  Angela  questioned  me 
with  a  look  as  she  sat  down  before  the  broken  chair 
that  held  the  unfinished  net. 

"Won't  you  say  the  paternoster  again?"  I  begged, 
for  I  had  not  succeeded  in  writing  the  half  of  the 
old  charm,  which  for  who  knows  how  many  cen- 
turies, anxious  women  have  invoked  for  news  of 
travelers. 

"Again  ?"  she  queried. 

I  showed  my  pencil.  "Please;  say  it  slowly  for 
me." 

"Ah,"  she  said  good-naturedly;  "you  will  tell  it 
to  the  wise  in  your  own  country.  Listen  then, 
daughter." 

Dropping  again  the  reed  netting  needle,  she  loos- 
ened her  neckerchief,  uncovering  her  corded  yellow 
throat.  Then  she  looked  meditatively  at  me  and 
away  again,  and  the  flood  of  words  recommenced. 
I  could  not  keep  pace  with  it,  and  a  request  to  repeat 
caused  Gna  Angela's  jaw  to  drop  and  her  brown 
and  yellow  mottled  face  to  look  hopelessly  bewil- 
dered. 

That  old  gossip,  Pliny,  says  that  in  order  to 
ensure  the  exact  recital  of  certain  Roman  public 
prayers,  one  assistant  read  the  formula  in  advance 
of  the  celebrant,  while  others  kept  silence  in  the 


62  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

audience  and  played  the  flute  to  shut  out  extraneous 
sounds.    A  slip  in  the  prayer  spoiled  the  omens. 

Gna  Angela  had  no  help,  and  a  slip  in  the  pater- 
noster was  disastrous.  To  ensure  success  she  rushed 
to  the  end  on  impetus.  If  she  paused,  the  thread 
broke. 

As  nearly  as  I  could  catch  it,  what  she  recited 
ran: 

Come  the  true  cross  to  adore 
Which  down  from  Calvary  they  bore; 
May  grace  and  light  our -spirits  foster 
To  say  St.  Julian's  paternoster. 

Once  St.  JuHan  went  to  the  chase ; 

In  his  hand  his  good  stick  found  its  place. 

To  Mary,  great  Virgin,  chance  him  led; 

Great  St.  Julian  spoke  and  said: 

At  this  court  good  friends  we  be; 

From  evil  foes  deliver  me; 

From  doctors,  too,  and  jails  unkind 

And  from  misfortune's  cruel  mind; 

From  raging  demons  set  me  free, 

From  mad  dogs'  bites  safe  let  me  be. 

Should  any  wish  to  do  me  harm, 

May  a  dead  man's  heart  inspire  his  arm; 

But  mine  the  heart  of  a  lion  strong 

That  wreaks  its  wrath  on  doers  of  wrong. 

This  morn  I  rose  up  from  the  sod, 
And  my  right  foot  with  speed  I  shod. 
St.  George's  sword  to  my  side  I  girt; 
Mary's  mantle  shielded  me  from  hurt. 
Then  down  I  went  unto  the  sea. 
Where  one  and  all  my  foes  met  me; 
Down  on  their  faces  they  fell  in  the  mould. 
While  I  stood  up  like  a  lion  bold. 


DONNA  PRUVIDENZA'S  LEMON  63 

Be  it  on  the  road,  or  indeed  safe  at  home, 
Come  with  me,  Saviour,  where'er  I  roam. 
Be  it  on  the  road  or  indeed  by  the  way. 
Come  with  me,  Mary  mother,  I  pray. 
Be  it  on  the  road  or  indeed  on  the  plain. 
Come  with  me  ever,  St.  Julian. 
Be  it  on  the  road  or  when  danger  is  near, 
Come  with  me  ever,  St.  Antonine  dear. 

This  St.  Julian  is  he  of  whom  the  Golden  Legend 
says  that,  having  slain  in  ignorance  his  father  and 
mother,  he  did  penance  in  long  wanderings.  Indeed 
Dr.  Pitre  gives  a  form  of  the  paternoster  which 
begins : 

His  mother  he  slaughtered,  his  father  he  slew; 
St.  Julian  he  to  the  mountain  flew. 

I  have  heard  a  similar  version  from  a  woman  who, 
instead  of  resorting  to  a  witch,  had  memorized  the 
charm  and  would  retire  into  a  corner,  shut  her  eyes 
and  recite  it  whenever  her  husband,  whose  business 
took  him  much  from  home,  failed  to  return  at  an 
expected  time. 

When  Gna  Angela  had  resumed  her  netting  and 
I  with  apologies  for  my  many  questions,  had  pro- 
duced the  lemon,  I  discovered  a  witch's  limitations. 
Gna  Angela  could  cure  headache  by  driving  away 
its  cause — the  evil  eye;  she  could  tell  me  of  the  life 
or  death  of  friends  beyond  the  ocean;  but  before 
the  lemon  she  confessed  ignorance. 

Touching  gingerly  the  nails  which,  as  the  skin 
of  the  fruit  grew  dry,  began  to  stick  out  like  chevaux 


64  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

de  frise,  she  said  it  would  take  strong  magic,  the 
magic  of  a  book,  to  undo  such  a  spell.  Once  she 
had  known  a  priest  who  had  a  book  of  the  fifteenth 
century.  (Fifteenth-century  charm-books  are  most 
esteemed.)  She  had  no  book.  I  must  ask  a  priest 
to  read  a  prayer  over  it,  first  putting  on  his  stole. 

My  second  call  having  proved  even  less  satisfac- 
tory than  the  first,  I  planned  as  I  left  Gna  Angela's 
door  to  submit  the  lemon  as  a  last  resort  to  a  witch 
of  whose  powers  I  had  heard  much — a  woman  who 
lived  at  Piedimonte  at  the  foot  of  Etna.  But  the 
notion  was  short-lived.  I  had  not  yet  reached  the 
flight  of  steps  at  the  head  of  my  own  street  when 
an  urgent  voice  said,  "Cara  Signurinedda !"  \nd 
there  was  Donna  Pruvidenza  harnessed  by  a  string 
to  a  packing  case  which  she  was  dragging  through 
the  Corso  with  a  serene  disregard  of  on-lookers. 

"Dear  little  Miss !"  she  repeated  in  a  tone  of  im- 
portance and  uneasiness.    "That  badly  educated,  the 

wife  of screams  maledictions  against  all  who 

respect  me !    You  have  destroyed  the  lemon  ?" 

Donna  Pruvidenza's  apprehensions  had  so  in- 
creased that  it  was  not  until  I  had  promised  imme- 
diate action  that  she  demanded  admiration  of  the 
packing  box.    "Firing  for  weeks !    Hot  food  I  shall 

have!"  she  exulted.     "Ah,  Missy,  's  wife  has 

reason  to  envy  me  my  friends !" 

The  lemon  went  to  the  kitchen  fire.  I  have  kept 
the  pins,  the  needles,  the  screws  and  the  nails.    For 


DONNA  PRUVIDENZA'S  LEMON         65 

Donna  Pruvidenza's  sake  I  recited  as  I  pulled  them 
out,  a  revised  edition  of  one  of  Gna  Vanna's  charms: 

Star  of  the  Eastern  light, 

Never  back  but  forward  bright. 

To  the  three,  to  the  three,  to  the  three 

And  even  to  the  twenty-one; 

Now  this  lemon  is  undone. 

Thus  do  I  take  out  the  nails, 

And  thus  the  spell  of  all  harm  fails. 


CHAPTER  III 
Cola  Pesce 

The  king  seized  the  goblet — he  swung  it  on  high, 
And,  whirHng,  it  fell  in  the  roar  of  the  tide: 
"But  bring  back  that  goblet  again  to  my  eye, 
And  I'll  hold  thee  the  dearest  that  rides  by  my  side; 
And  thine  arms  shall  embrace  as  thy  bride,  I  decree, 
The  maiden  whose  pity  now  pleadeth  for  thee." 

— "The  Diver."  Schiller. 

It  was  at  his  sister  Brigida's  wedding  party  that 
Cola  asked  why  I  did  not  come  oftener  to  the 
marina  to  fish  with  him. 

"The  Taormina  boats  are  Wind,"  I  said;  "I  like 
better  the  fishing  boats  of  Catania,  because  they  have 
eyes,  and  they  are  painted  with  saints." 

"We  carry  our  saints  in  our  hearts,"  retorted 
Cola,  "instead  of  painting  them  on  our  boats." 

Then  he  left  me  to  take  his  place  In  the  tarantella. 
Brigida  was  dancing,  a  brown  girl  with  almond- 
shaped  Arab  eyes;  and  the  bridegroom  and  others 
of  the  fisher  folk.  The  clear  space  for  the  dancers 
had  but  the  length  of  twelve  bricks  of  the  uneven 
pavement;  the  musicians  had  barely  room  for  their 
elbows ;  but  the  "Sucking  Babes"  played — it  was  the 
"Babes"  and  not  the  "Rats,"   I  think,  who  sent 

66 


COLA  PESCE  67 

music;  the  "Babes"  and  the  "Rats,"  conservatives 
and  radicals,  do  not  mix  at  weddings  any  more  than 
in  poHtics — till  the  floor  shook,  and  the  basket-work 
fish  traps  that  hung  in  clusters  from  the  ceiling, 
shook  also. 

It  was  hard  to  move  without  stepping  on  plates, 
and  Brigida's  mother  was  still  dishing  roasted  kid 
and  spaghetti  to  be  sent  to  the  neighbors.  Brigida's 
sister  served  wine  and  "Spanish  bread,"  which  is  a 
powdery  sponge  cake;  and  later,  when  the  day  de- 
clined towards  sunset,  and  we  had  helped  Brigida 
out  of  her  cotton  house  dress,  and  into  her  dove- 
colored  wedding  silk  and  white  scarf,  and  had  stood 
about  pretending  not  to  see  her  weep  as  she  kissed 
the  hands  of  her  father  and  mother  in  good-by,  we 
walked  in  procession  through  the  narrow  streets 
conducting  Brigida  and  Santu  to  the  little  white- 
washed upper  room  that  was  to  be  the  new  home. 

It  was  after  we  had  admired  the  knitted  counter- 
pane of  the  big  white  bed  and  the  fine  oil  lamp  and 
the  colored  prints  of  saints  and  the  royal  family, 
and  the  band  had  played  at  the  door,  and  we  had 
said  good  wishes  to  the  couple  that,  as  Cola  and 
I  walked  away  together,  he  said,  "Signorina, 
Occhietti,  who  fishes  from  Giardini,  has  a  Catania 
boat;  I  shall  borrow  it,  and  my  father  and  I  will 
take  you  fishing  to-morrow  morning." 

"After  all,  I  prefer  the  Nuovo  Sant'  Alfio,"  I  an- 
swered. 

Cola's  boat,  the  New  Saint  Alfio,  was  an  old  and 


68  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

leaky  tub  as  long  ago  as  when  I  first  saw  Cola 
perched  on  the  wall  by  the  highway  above  the  beach 
at  Isola  Bella,  kicking  together  his  hard  little-boy 
heels  and  hailing  every  passing  tourist  with,  "Voli 
battellu?    Andiamu  a  li  grotti?" 

The  poor  old  boat  has  been  fishing  by  night  and 
taking  tourists  to  the  grottoes  by  day  from  then 
until  now,  when  Cola  has  done  his  military  service 
and  feels  himself  a  man;  so  I  repented  that  I  had 
scorned  so  tried  a  friend  as  the  sea-worn  saint  and 
had  longed  for  painted  boats  with  eyes. 

"We'll  ask  Occhietti  to  come  with  us,"  said  Cola, 
"and  bring  his  boat,  the  San  Pancraziu." 

And  so  it  happened  that  when  I  opened  my  door 
at  three  o'clock  next  morning  a  dark  figure  that 
stood  leaning  against  the  wall  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  Via  Bagnoli  Croce  started  towards  me  from 
under  the  red-flowering  pomegranate  tree,  and  there 
was  Cola,  carrying  a  little  lantern  and  a  big  basket, 
the  padded  rim  of  which  was  stuck  full  of  the  many 
hooks  of  a  baited  trawl. 

"Why  have  you  brought  the  trap?"  I  asked,  for 
setting  a  trawl  is  not  lively  fishing.  "Let  us  lift 
some  pots  for  lobsters." 

"We  shall  lift  lobster  traps,"  said  Cola.  "Come 
on !  Father  has  gone  down  already." 

There  were  stars  in  the  blue-black  sky,  and  the 
Fisherman's  Path,  which  drops  sharp  and  steep 
from  Taormina  to  the  sea,  is  cut  for  the  most  part 
against  the  bare  rock  face  of  the  mountain;  but 


COLA  PESCE  69 

when  our  stump  of  a  candle  flickered  out,  I  could 
have  wished  for  another  to  relight  the  tiny  lantern, 
for  the  zig-zags  are  rough,  and  here  the  heavy  leaf- 
age of  a  carob  tree,  and  there  a  miniature  pass, 
left  us  in  thick  warm  darkness  without  vision.  Even 
on  the  blindest  turns  Cola's  bare  feet  trod  boldly  as 
if  it  were  noon;  but  my  groping  hands  made  sad 
acquaintance  in  the  long  steps  down  from  stone 
to  stone  with  dusty  brambles  and  the  harsh  stubble 
of  cut  forage,  or  the  dry  white  stems  of  wormwood, 
for  it  was  mid-June,  when  the  Southern  world  is 
burnt  and  gritty.  There  was  not  a  growing  thing 
along  our  way  except  thistle  heads  and  the  pink 
blossoms  of  an  oleander  shrub.  But  at  last  we 
passed  under  the  walls  of  the  inn  that  stands  by  the 
high  road  and  so  down  to  the  water,  just  as  a  low 
pale  streak  in  the  East  began  to  hint  the  dawn. 

At  the  little  curving  harbor  between  Isola  Bella 
and  the  rock  of  Capo  Sant'  Andrea  we  found  griz- 
zled old  Vanni,  who  is  Cola's  father,  and  Turriddu, 
his  cousin,  putting  rollers  under  the  bow  of  the 
New  Saint  Alfio  and  the  equally  battered  Madonna 
della  Rocca,  and  drawing  the  two  boats  down  the 
beach.  Occhietti's  long  Catania-built  boat,  the  San 
Pancrazio,  was  just  coming  up  to  the  landing  rock 
through  the  narrow  clear  way  between  the  stones. 

Occhietti,  like  his  boat,  is  named  Pancrazio;  but 
his  little  twinkling  eyes  make  him  Occhietti  as  in- 
evitably as  Turriddu's  thirst  makes  him  Acquaf  risca. 
Occhietti  had  been  spearing  fish  all  night  by  the 


70  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

light  of  a  gas  torch,  many-branched,  like  the  horns 
of  a  stag,  a  light  of  which  most  of  the  older  fisher- 
men strongly  disapprove. 

"Very  beautiful,  Vossia !"  he  said  exultingly,,hold- 
ing  up  to  view  in  the  yellow  flare,  a  big  poulpe,  all 
stomach  and  arms. 

"A  beauty  of  a  polyp !"  exclaimed  Turriddu. 

"Splendidu!"  cried  Cola. 

"Magnificu !"  I  echoed  as  in  duty  bound. 

"Beauty  of  a  torch !"  growled  Vann!,  who  is  not 
moved  often  to  such  ill-temper.  "Vossia  knows  that 
the  light  goes  down  into  the  water  and  burns  the 
fish,  so  that  they  do  not  taste  good;  and  little  fish 
that  are  not  caught  are  burned  so  that  they  never 
grow  well." 

"Beautiful  pennies  to  pay  for  the  gas!"  taunted 
Occhietti,  dropping  the  devil  fish  and  poising  his 
long-handled  trident.  "Some  boatmen  have  not  the 
heart  to  put  out  the  money!" 

"A  stomach-twisting  to  you!"  snarled  Vanni. 

"Did  you  ever  hear,"  I  asked  in  a  hurry,  "of  the 
old  Greek  of  Syracuse  who  ate  a  poulpe  a  meter 
long  and  ached  so  with  colic  after  it  that  his  doctor 
told  him  to  dispose  quickly  of  his  affairs?  *I  have 
disposed  of  all  but  the  head,'  he  groaned,  dying ;  'and 
if  you  will  bring  it,  I  will  dispose  of  that  also.'  " 

"It  is  true  the  stomach  must  be  strong,"  grinned 
Occhietti;  "but  a  good  eating  of  polyp  is  worth  a 
twisting  of  the  inwards." 

"Come  on!"  he  said  sharply  to  the  boy  who  stood 


COLA  PESCE  71 

at  the  oars;  and  the  San  Pancrazio  slid  away  over 
the  warm  black  water  to  lie  in  wait  for  more  poulpes 
under  the  rock  shadows  of  the  Beautiful  Island. 

"Deaf .doctors  to  you,  and  dead  druggists !"  mut- 
tered Vanni,  angry  at  the  desertion. 

Turriddu  had  hung  two  great  fish-traps  shaped 
like  beehives  to  the  bow-post  of  the  Madonna  della 
Rocca;  he  pushed  out  leisurely  behind  Occhietti. 
Cola  brought  oars  from  the  fish-house  on  the  beach 
and  a  longish  cane  with  a  hook  at  the  end  and  a 
heavy  spear.  Then  we,  too,  with  Vanni,  climbed 
aboard,  and  the  tubby  Nuovo  Sant'  Alfio  took  the 
water  last  of  the  three.  Cola's  trousers  were  rolled 
up  to  the  knee,  and  as  he  stood  pushing  forward 
his  clumsy  oars  tied  each  to  its  single  oar  peg,  his 
dark  figure  took  just  the  attitude  of  the  rower  in 
one  of  the  Herculaneum  pictures. 

Like  most  of  the  Taormina  boats,  the  Nuovo 
Sant'  Alfio  is  heavy  and  squat,  hardly  more  than 
fourteen  feet  long,  with  three  thwarts  and  decked 
a  little  at  the  bow.  Her  sea-keeping  furniture  is  as 
dingy  as  her  planks — two  traps  swinging  at  her 
bow-post,  tangles  of  net  like  mops  stowed  under 
the  bow  seat,  cheek  by  jowl  with  a  basket  for  bread, 
a  fat  jug  for  carrying  water,  and  a  flask  for  oil; 
and  in  her  side  cleats,  and  under  foot,  knives,  stones 
for  weighing  fish  and  coils  of  rope  twisted  of  rushes 
so  roughly  that  the  ends  bristle  at  every  joining. 

We  were  outside  of  Isola  Bella,  and  Vanni  was 
setting  the  trawl  when  we  began  talking  about  Cola 


7a  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

Pesce.  It  takes  time  to  put  out  four  hundred  hooks, 
passing  each  through  the  hand  to  make  sure  it  is 
running  true  and  is  well  baited.  First,  Vanni  threw 
overboard  one  of  our  rope  coils.  A  stone  tied  in 
a  loop  went  to  the  bottom,  and  at  the  other  end 
floated  slices  of  sea-bleached  cork  strung  on  the  rope 
like  little  islands.  Near  these  floats  he  tied  the  trap. 
Each  drop  line  with  its  hook  was  two  meters  long, 
perhaps,  and  each  was  separated  by  several  feet  from 
its  neighbors. 

The  pale  streak  in  the  East  was  turning  crimson, 
but  the  sea  was  blacker  than  before.  Turriddu  had 
put  out  a  trolling  line  at  each  side  of  the  Madonna 
della  Rocca,  and  had  headed  North  beyond  our  view. 
In  the  distance  towards  Naxos  gleamed  the  drifting 
lights  of  a  dozen  torches.  From  the  beach  beyond 
Capo  Sant'  Andrea  came  the  distant  shouts  of  men 
hauling  a  seine. 

Of  a  sudden  one  of  Vanni's  hooks,  as  it  went  over- 
side, caught  in  floating  pumice,  such  as  is  driven 
at  times  through  the  Straits  of  Messina  from  Strom- 
boli.  We  took  aboard  some  spongy  pieces,  for  the 
floors  of  Taormina  are  scoured  and  the  hearth  for 
the  winter  fire  is  lined  with  pumice. 

"Do  you  often  find  it  like  this  in  open  sea?"  I 
asked. 

"Oftener  at  the  beach,"  said  Cola.  "When  the 
current  sets  North  it  will  wash  ashore  at  our 
marina." 

"Like  the  body  of  Cola  Pesce?"  I  suggested. 


COLA  PESCE  73 

"Like  Cola  Pisci,"  to  my  surprise  assented  Cola. 

At  Messina  I  once  went  fishing  with  an  old  man 
who  prattled  of  the  legendary  diver  who  inspired 
Schiller's  ballad  as  of  a  hero  well  remembered ;  but 
though  tradition  says  that  the  body  of  Nicola,  the 
Fish,  who  plunged  into  the  whirlpool  of  CharySSis 
to  gratify  a  whim  of  Frederic  II,  the  Suabian,  was 
cast  up  at  Taormina,  and  though  the  tale  itself  is 
one  of  the  commonest  told  in  Sicily,  never  before 
had  I  heard  his  name  among  our  fishermen. 

"Just  where  did  they  find  Cola  Pesce?"  I  pursued. 

"How  should  I  know?"  returned  Cola,  who  is  of 
the  newer  days,  scornful  of  old  fables.  "It  is  my 
father  who  talks  of  Cola  Pisci,"  he  added. 

By  this  time  the  trawl  was  set,  and  Vanni  was 
dropping  the  buoy  and  anchor.  I  was  silent  until 
he  had  finished;  then,  as  the  Nuovo  Sant'  Alfio,  now 
half  a  mile  beyond  the  island,  turned  slowly  towards 
its  outer  ledges,  I  said,  "Aren't  there  dolphins  out 
yon?    They  remind  me  always  of  Cola  Pesce." 

Vanni  is  taciturn  when  his  son  is  with  us,  and 
I  glanced  towards  his  end  of  the  boat  without  much 
hope  of  drawing  an  opinion.  "They  bring  bad 
weather,"  was  his  only  response  at  the  moment; 
but  after  a  little,  pulling  off  his  sun-faded  cap  and 
scratching  among  the  curls  of  his  grizzled  hair,  he 
went  on  slowly: 

"In  the  days  of  to-day  there  is  no  one  who  speaks 
of  Cola  Pisci.  The  young  men  have  never  heard 
of  him.    But  my  mate  and  I  reason  together  about 


74  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

him  once  in  a  while,  because  we  are  of  the  old 
times.  My  'cumpari'  does  not  wish  to  believe  it, 
but  I  hold  that  Cola  Pisci  deceived  the  king." 

"You  think,"  I  asked,  "that  he  was  not  drowned?" 

"No,"  said  Vanni.  "There  are  those  who  hold 
that  he  swam  away  under  the  sea,  because  he  was 
half  man  and  half  fish;  but  I  say  that  he  deceived 
the  king.  My  chum  says  that  the  king  threw  into 
the  sea  a  cup  of  gold ;  but  my  grandfather,  who  died 
very  old,  always  told  me  that  it  was  a  golden  plate 
that  twinkled  with  precious  stones." 

Vanni  spoke  deliberately,  planning  his  argument. 

"And  the  king  threw  this  plate  into  the  round 
whirlpool  that  they  call  the  'Carnation'.?" 

"Yes,  Charybdis.  And  the  king  said  to  Cola 
Pisci,  Tf  you  go  to  the  bottom  and  bring  it  up 
to  me  again,  it  is  yours !'  And  Cola  threw  himself 
into  the  sea  and  brought  back  the  king's  plate  in 
his  hand.  *There  it  is.  Majesty!'  he  said.  And 
the  king  gave  it  to  him  as  he  had  promised.  But 
then  the  king  threw  in  a  ring,  and  told  Cola  he  must 
go  down  a  second  time  and  bring  this  up  also. 

"Why?"  demanded  Vanni,  his  bronzed  wrinkled 
face  asking  the  question  as  earnestly  as  his  tone. 
"Why  did  the  King  say  to  Cola  Pisci,  'Again  you 
must  go  down  and  you  must  fetch  me  this  ring?* 

"Because,"  replied  Vanni  to  his  own  question, 
"my  grandfather  said  that  when  Cola  brought  back 
the  golden  plate  he  had  not  been  to  the  bottom. 
How  did  he  know?    My  grandfather's  ancients  said 


COLA  PESCE  75 

that  Cola  had  not  been  gone  long  enough  to  get 
to  the  bottom ;  and  they  were  fishermen.  A  fisher- 
man always  knows  the  depth  of  water.  The  boat- 
men of  Messina  must  have  told  the  king  how  many 
fathoms  deep  is  Charybdis.  And  then  the  plate " 

Vanni  finished  the  sentence  with  his  hand,  rocking 
it  to  show  the  dipping  motion  with  which  a  flat 
object  sinks  slowly,  like  a  falling  leaf. 

"Understand,  Vossia?"  He  repeated  the  dipping 
motion,  "It  was  still  near  the  surface  when  Cola 
reached  it.  It  was  for  this  that  the  king  sent  him 
down  again,  to  go  really  to  the  bottom,  which  Cola 
did  not  succeed  in  doing.  You  persuade  yourself, 
Vossia?" 

Vanni  did  not  argue  as  a  partisan.  His  heavy 
grizzled  brows  shadowed  his  puckered  face,  and  he 
smiled  good-humored  admission  of  the  perplexities 
of  the  case  as  he  reasoned  his  way  through  it;  but 
at  the  end  he  lifted  his  head  with  the  air  of  one 
whom  logic  has  satisfied.  His  "You  persuade  your- 
self, Vossia  ?"  was  less  a  question  than  a  chance  for 
me  to  affirm  my  conviction. 

"But  Cola's  body,"  I  queried,  "where  did  it  come 
to  land?"      . 

"My  grandfather's  ancients  told  him  nothing  of 
that,"  he  answered.  "Somewhere  at  the  beach;  or 
it  might  be  yonder  at  the  Grotto  of  the  Bats." 

In  the  tourist  season  the  Grotto  of  the  Bats  be- 
comes the  Grotto  of  the  Doves,  and  there  are  those 
who  count  its  changing  emerald  lights  more  beauti- 


76  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

ful  than  those  of  the  Blue  Grotto  of  Capri.  Look- 
ing across  at  its  mouth  in  the  wall  of  Capo  Sant*  An- 
drea was  like  regarding  the  grave  of  Poseidon;  for 
Cola  Pesce,  who,  according  to  Messina,  was  a  mar- 
velous diver  who  explored  the  bottom  of  the  straits, 
and  according  to  Vanni  was  a  man  who  deceived 
the  king,  was  but  another  phase,  according  to  Dr. 
Pitre's  folklore  studies,  of  San  Nicola,  and  of  Nep- 
tune, and  even  of  Old  Nick  of  Northern  sailors. 

"How  deep  is  the  water  over  there?"  I  wondered. 

"Outside  the  grotto,  six  fathoms,  perhaps " 

Vanni  was  marking  "braccie"  with  outstretched 
arms  when  Cola,  weary  of  his  namesake,  inter- 
rupted: "In  the  days  of  to-day  men  go  under  the 
sea  in  diving  bells ;  but  as  to  the  past,  such  tales  are 
fables.    Ecco,  our  floats!" 

Vanni  and  I  were  silent,  a  little  shy  before  Cola's 
young  wisdom.  The  Nuovo  Sant'  Alfio  was  now 
under  Isola  Bella,  and  just  ahead  floated  another 
set  of  cork  buoys.  We  had  come  to  lift  traps  in 
search  of  bait  for  the  larger  traps  that  are  set  for 
lobsters. 

Vanni  took  my  place  at  the  stern;  and,  fixing 
in  place  a  small  block  and  wheel,  he  seized  the  rope 
the  corks  supported,  and  passed  it  over  the  pulley. 
One  hairy  leg  inside  the  boat  and  one  outside,  his 
sun-bleached  shirt  and  trousers  gray  in  the  growing 
light,  he  presented  a  lean  and  still  sinewy  figure 
as  he  began  to  haul.  The  huge  baskets  came  up 
slowly.    As  the  first  appeared  at  the  water's  edge. 


COLA  PESCE  77 

he  redoubled  his  efforts,  bringing  it  dripping  into 
the  boat,  where  it  stood  nearly  three  feet  tall,  its 
funnel-shaped  entrance  defended  against  escaping 
fish  by  a  chevaux  de  frise  of  rush  ends  pointing  up 
from  the  broad  bottom. 

Unpinning  from  the  thimble  top  the  small  round 
cover,  he  shook  Into  the  boat  a  dozen  or  more  of 
the  tiny  black  fish  that  are  called  "little  monks." 
Then,  fastening  the  cover  again  with  wooden  pins, 
he  rinsed  the  hive-shaped  trap  and  tossed  It  at  my 
feet,  the  very  pattern,  perhaps,  of  Pliny's  "osier 
kipes"  for  taking  "purples"  for  making  dye. 

But  Pliny's  traps  were  baited  with  cockles.  In 
Vanni's  there  was  nothing.  "The  little  monks  do 
not  go  in  for  food,"  he  answered  to  my  query. 
"They  take  delight  in  the  traps ;  they  go  in  to  play. 
We  do  not  bait  them." 

The  little  monks  did  not  seem  on  pleasure  bent 
that  morning.  One  by  one  Vanni  hauled  traps  until 
the  boat  was  piled  with  them,  as  with  a  towering 
load  of  bubbles ;  and  still  we  had  taken  little — a  few 
monks,  a  few  dozen  shrimps,  some  wee  red  "ruf- 
fian!" and  half  a  dozen  "coraUI,"  striped  orange, 
white  and  green. 

It  was  not  until  nine  or  ten  traps  were  up  that 
Cola  pointed  to  rising  bubbles.  "Eels!"  he  ex- 
claimed. 

Vanni  was  working  too  hard  to  speak.  He  puck- 
ered his  lips  as  If  to  whistle. 


78  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

"The  eels  do  like  children  with  their  mouths," 
explained  Cola;  "they  whistle." 

Bubble  after  bubble  came  to  the  surface  and  at 
last  appeared  the  trap,  which  held  two  conger  eels, 
each  of  six  to  eight  pounds.  The  last  trap  should 
have  held  an  eel,  also,  but  instead  there  was  a  hole 
in  its  wicker  side. 

"Robber!"  said  Cola  disgustedly.  "He  ate  the 
monk  and  then  bit  out  a  hole  and  got  away," 

When  the  traps  were  all  up,  Vanni  put  them  down 
again  one  by  one,  while  the  boat  moved  just  enough 
to  float  them  apart,  the  floats  marking  as  before  the 
end  of  the  long  rope  on  which  they  were  strung. 
The  two  fresh  traps  that  swung  from  the  bow-post 
went  down  in  place  of  the  torn  one  and  another 
which  we  carried  away  to  be  cleaned  and  mended. 

By  this  time  the  stars  had  faded.  The  dark  red 
streaks  in  the  Eastern  sky  had  paled  to  pink  and 
gray,  and  the  morning  clouds  were  like  delicate 
wings  brushing  the  sky.  In  the  clear  dawn-light 
the  straits  narrowed  up  sharply  to  the  North  of  us 
towards  Messina,  and  the  saddle  of  the  mountains 
of  Aspromonte  was  defined  to  the  smallest  detail. 
At  one  side  of  us  was  the  rocky  Isola  Bella,  at  the 
other  the  red  marble  ridge  of  Capo  Sant'  Andrea. 
Behind  us  rose  the  hills  of  Taormina,  parched  and 
brown,  more  bare  and  rigid  than  in  winter.  The 
sea  was  smooth  and  silvery. 

As  the  boat  slid  leisurely  back  to  the  trawl  we 
had  left  almost  an  hour  earlier,  the  pink  in  the 


COLA  PESCE  79 

East  brightened  again  until  it  was  saffron.  One 
held  one's  breath  in  sharp  suspense  waiting  for  the 
sun.  Minute  by  minute  the  saffron  became  more 
vivid  and  the  waiting  more  tense,  until  at  last  a 
knife-like  gleam  flashed  above  Calabria. 

"Does  the  sun  come  up  just  the  same  in  your 
country?"  asked  Vanni,  while  we  watched  the  red 
crescent  become  a  globe  and  slowly  lift  itself  from 
the  horizon.  "They  say  it  is  the  earth  that  moves; 
it  does  not  seem  so,  but  Vossia,  who  has  been  in 
many  places  and  perhaps  understands  the  seven 
languages  of  the  world,  should  know." 

The  trawl  as  Vanni  stripped  it  did  not  net  us 
many  fish.  From  the  four  hundred  hooks  we  took 
not  more  than  half  a  dozen  "uopi,"  or  "bo-opi"; 
brilliant  little  eye-shaped  fish  spotted  with  red;  ox- 
eyes,  according  to  their  name,  like  those  of  Hera. 

"Thieves!"  again  exclaimed  Cola.  "The  fish  eat 
the  bait,  and  if  they  don't  bite  hard,  they  get  away," 

Turriddu's  boat  was  now  again  in  sight.  He  had 
taken  in  his  trolling  lines,  and  we  headed  out  to 
meet  him  without  bait-fish,  for  he  was  ready  to  haul 
the  lobster  pots  sunk  in  deep  water. 

Before  we  reached  him  we  could  see  that  the  trap 
refused  to  come.  His  straining  figure  silhouetted 
against  sea  and  sky  put  forth  its  strength  to  no 
purpose.  The  powerful  current  running  South  from 
the  straits  must  have  twisted  a  rope,  Cola  said,  under 
a  rock.  When  we  came  up  with  the  Madonna  della 
Rocca  he  stepped  aboard  of  her  and  took  the  oars, 


8o  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

pushing  at  top  strength  against  the  tide,  while  Tur- 
riddu  continued  to  haul. 

The  cousins  were  much  alike,  with  the  brown 
skin,  straight  nose  and  fine  features  of  Arabs.  Cola 
was  much  the  younger,  and  his  crisp  hair,  almond 
eyes  and  flashing  teeth  made  him  as  he  bent  to  his 
work,  a  swarthy  model  for  a  statue  of  labor. 

There  were  sixty  fathoms  of  water  under  the 
boat,  Vanni  said,  and  it  would  be  hard  to  free  the 
trap  before  the  tide  turned.  Vanni  measures  the 
depth  of  water  as  the  Romans  used  to  do,  by  "brac- 
cie,"  though  the  Roman  braccium  was  under  five 
feet,  while  nowadays,  it  has  become  a  fathom. 

We  left  the  two  men  at  the  task  and  headed  south 
of  the  island.  The  men  who  had  been  fishing  by 
torch-light  had  finished  their  work,  and  their  boats 
scattered  over  the  sea  as  far  away  as  Capo  Schizo 
were  putting  ashore.  Over  the  water  came  the 
monotonous,  long-drawn  wail  of  their  song: 

".  .  .  Quantu  beddu  star  cu  te. 
Lasciu  patri, 
Lasciu  matri, 
Lasciu  casa 
Ppi  star  cu  te." 

At  the  beach  South  of  Capo  di  Taormina  some 
twenty  men  were  hauling  a  "sciabica,"  a  net  that 
may  be  an  eighth  of  a  mile  long,  and  that  was 
ancient  in  the  days  of  the  Phoenicians.  As  the 
two  files  of  men,  leg-deep  in  water,  pulled  in  the 


COLA  PESCE  81 

red  folds  and  coiled  them  in  heaps  on  the  sand,  the 
boat  that  had  cast  the  seine  followed  it  to  shore. 
Behind  the  arms  of  the  net  trailed  its  deep  pocket, 
which  as  it  was  drawn  up  and  emptied,  seemed  to 
hold  but  little,  though  a  night  or  two  earlier  a  net 
had  taken,  between  sunset  and  morning,  more  than 
twenty-six  hundred  pounds  of  anchovies. 

"To-night,  maybe,"  said  Vanni,  "they  will  not 
take  the  value  of  fifteen  lire,  and  of  that  a  third 
goes  to  the  net.  But  that  is  fishermen's  luck.  I 
myself  have  paid  ten  soldi  for  bait  and  taken  eleven 
soldi  of  fish ;  and  with  one  soldo  how  does  one  give 
food  to  a  family  ?" 

He  hesitated,  then  went  on :  "I  am  but  one,  and 
if  I  were  really  to  fill  myself,  I  could  eat  all  alone 
five  and  a  half  soldi ;  that  would  be  only  half  a  kilo 
of  macaroni.  The  rich  strangers  who  visit  our 
country  pick  a  little  of  many  things,  but  we  eat 
all  we  can  get  of  one  or  two  things — bread  and 
macaroni,  or  bread  and  beans.  It  is  only  at  wed- 
dings," he  finished  confidentially,  "that  we  arrive 
at  sweets." 

As  Vanni  sent  the  Nuovo  Sant*  Alfio  in  among 
the  rocks  that  fringe  the  south  side  of  Isola  Bella, 
he  dipped  a  reed  into  his  oil- jar  and  let  fall  on  the 
water  a  drop  or  two  of  oil.  Then  he  put  overboard 
a  tangle  of  net,  dragging  it  across  the  bottom  by 
the  hook  on  his  cane  rod,  keeping  within  the  circle 
of  the  oil  mirror.  After  a  little  he  lifted  the  net 
and  took  out  of  it,  enmeshed  by  their  spines,  half 


82  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

a  dozen  big  brown  sea  urchins,  such  as  sell  two  or 
three  for  a  soldo. 

"Shall  we  eat?"  he  suggested,  bringing  out  the 
basket  with  bread  and  cutting  the  "fruit  of  the  sea" 
as  one  might  slice  off  the  top  of  a  lemon. 

It  was  a  pleasant  place  to  breakfast.  Isola  Bella 
lies  half  way  betwene  Capo  Sant'  Andrea  and  the 
slate-black  crag  of  the  Capo  di  Taormina,  which 
rose  across  the  little  bay  to  our  south,  broken  into 
the  rugged  walls  of  miniature  fiords,  rough  with 
jutting  rocks,  the  haunts  of  rooks  and  wild  pigeons, 
where  even  in  the  morning  light  the  green  and  violet 
waves  were  somber. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  boat,  almost  within  hand 
reach,  dropped  the  dark  green  leaves  of  a  leaning 
fig  tree,  rooted  in  a  crevice  of  the  island  rock. 

There  was  little  depth  where  we  floated.  At  one 
minute  through  the  crystal-clear,  radiant  water  every 
breath  of  the  bottom  life  was  visible;  at  the  next 
the  rock  reefs  were  hidden  by  streamers  of  many- 
colored  sea  weed.  High  overhead  circled  swallows. 
In  the  air  was  a  clean,  pleasant  smell  of  salt  and 
algae. 

"It's  good  here,"  said  Vanni.  He  dipped  a  last 
morsel  of  bread  Into  the  cup  of  a  sea  urchin,  and 
picked  up  again  the  handful  of  net  and  the  pole. 

With  the  urchins  there  came  up  presently  a  red 
starfish,  Vanni  laid  it  out  on  a  thwart,  separating 
Its  five  points  carefully. 


COLA  PESCE  83 

"Fine  and  red,"  I  commented.  "It  Is  against  evil 
eye." 

"Yes,"  he  answered  reservedly. 

"You  don't  believe  in  the  evil  eye?" 

"But,  yes,"  he  said,  with  a  considering  smile  such 
as  he  had  given  to  the  case  of  Cola  Pesce.  Straight- 
ening his  bent  figure,  he  wiped  his  shaggy  eyebrows 
with  a  red  handkerchief.  "Would  the  priests 
fumigate  the  altar  and  the  people  if  there  was  no 
evil  eye?"  He  seemed  reasoning  with  himself  as 
well  as  me.  "The  people  see  the  priests  swing  the 
censer  and  they  argue  about  it.  They  see  that  the 
fumigation  is  against  evil  eye." 

"And  the  starfish "  I  pursued. 

The  starfish  was  for  my  pleasure. 

I  spoke  of  a  door  that  I  passed  almost  daily,  where 
a  horseshoe  was  nailed  between  two  starfish,  and 
he  said  that  now  and  then  a  family  that  had  suffered 
a  misfortune  would  pay  a  soldo  or  two  for  one 
large  and  red.  Mothers  asked  for  cowrie  shells  to 
hang  at  the  neck  of  teething  babies;  papery  white 
sea  horses,  too,  would  sometimes  bring  soldi;  but 
these  were  not  to  be  had  often. 

We  talked  of  a  hundred  things — of  the  dogfish 
with  teeth  "like  a  mule,"  for  fear  of  which  the 
fishermen  dare  not  nap  in  the  boat  In  the  long  sum- 
mer nights  when  they  are  afloat  from  evening  until 
sunrise ;  and  of  the  great  tunny,  which  the  Taormina 
men  take  at  times  in  open  sea,  looking  well  not 
to  get  a  slap  from  its  tail.    And  minute  by  minute 


84  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

it  grew  hot  even  In  the  shadow  of  the  wild  fig  trees ; 
so  hot  that  I  had  grown  sleepy  when  of  a  sudden 
Vanni  dropped  his  cane  rod  and  began  to  row  at 
full  speed  out  to  sea. 

As  the  boat  shot  forward,  I  strained  my  eyes  to 
find  the  object  of  this  chase,  but  the  sea  was  empty, 
white  and  shimmering.  It  was  some  minutes  before 
I  caught  sight  of  an  upstanding  black  fin.  Giving 
one  last  powerful  shove  as  we  came  within  striking 
distance,  Vanni  dropped  the  oars ;  and,  seizing  Cola's 
heavy  lance-headed  pole,  he  cast  it  while  the  boat 
shot  past  what  looked  like  a  great  black  wheel.  A 
streak  of  blood  stained  the  water,  and  the  wheel 
began  to  plunge  and  wallow. 

We  had  speared  a  huge  basking  sunfish,  better 
named  in  the  Italian — a  "mola,"  millstone.  It  was 
not  easy  to  get  It  into  the  boat,  for  it  was  more  than 
two  feet  in  diameter,  and  may  have  weighed  sixty 
pounds.  At  last  it  lay  at  our  feet,  to  the  eye  a 
headless,  tailless  mass,  inchoate  but  for  its  big  black 
back  and  belly  fins. 

Vanni  was  more  elated  than  he  wished  to  show. 
The  rough  shagreen  hide  was  thick  and  good  for 
nothing,  not  even  for  leather,  he  said.  The  fish 
would  be  two-thirds  waste,  and  the  rest  would  sell 
for  soup;  it  would  fetch  no  more  than  a  few  lire; 
but  as  he  took  a  long  drink  of  water  from  the 
fat-bellied  jug,  and  headed  the  boat  again  inshore, 
his  eyes  shone  with   satisfaction.     Cola  was  the 


Lobster  Pots  and  Fish   Traps 


The  San  Pancrazio 


COLA  PESCE  8s 

cleverest  lancer,  he  boasted,  of  all  Taormina,  though 
when  he  himself  was  young 

Cola  could  not  beat  him  yet,  I  protested. 

Fish  were  plentier  in  his  young  days.  As  a  lad 
he  lanced  the  mola  for  sport,  he  said ;  nobody  would 
have  eaten  it.  Did  I  know  the  "palamati" — the 
beautiful  young  tunny  fish  all  blue  and  silver  ?  Years 
ago  the  Taormina  men  caught  them  as  now  they 
catch  anchovies,  by  the  boatload;  and  sold  them 
for  good  prices.  But  in  the  days  of  to-day  when 
Christians  eat  meat,  even  on  Fridays,  like  Turks, 
the  few  fish  you  get  you  must  give  away  almost 
for  nothing. 

The  Madonna  della  Rocca  was  still  where  we  had 
left  her.  Cola  and  Turriddu  must  have  had  a  hard 
time  freeing  the  traps,  for  though  the  boat  was  piled 
high  with  them,  the  last  were  not  yet  in. 

"She's  all  bubbly  domes,"  I  said ;  "Hke  a  floating 
mosque." 

"A  mosque?  I  don't  know,"  returned  Vanni. 
"When  the  tramontane  wind  blows  we  can't  lift 
traps ;  the  boat  would  be  carried  out  to  sea." 

When  Cola  saw  us  approaching,  he  shouted, 
"You  got  the  mola?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Vanni,  with  assumed  indifference. 
"How  many  lobsters?" 

"Eight,"  said  Vanni,  holding  up  in  each  hand  a 
big  red  lobster,  "Are  there  lobsters  in  your  country, 
Vossia?"  he  demanded,  as  we  came  alongside. 

"Ours  are  green,"  I  said,  "before  they  are  cooked." 


86  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

"Then  they  are  not  so  beautiful." 

Turriddu  was  baiting  the  last  trap.  Cola  tossed 
him  two  or  three  little  monks  strung  on  a  rush  and 
he  twisted  it  across  the  trap  on  the  Inside  and  pinned 
down  the  cover.  They  would  follow  us  to  the  beach, 
they  said,  as  soon  as  the  nasse  had  been  put  over- 
side, stopping  on  the  way  for  another  look  at  the 
trawl. 

As  we  approached  the  landing  rock  we  saw  fish 
peddlers  waiting  with  baskets  and  scales.  The  fisher- 
men do  not  market  their  own  fish,  but  sell  at  the 
water's  edge,  weighing  In  balances,  each  man 
against  his  own  set  of  stones.  Knives  were  at  work 
in  a  minute,  hacking  the  tough  black  skin  off  the 
mola. 

It  was  not  much  past  eight  o'clock,  but  sky  and 
sea  were  white  with  sclrocco,  and  the  chain  of  my 
watch  was  so  hot  that  It  scorched  the  hand.  Their 
fish  disposed  of,  the  men  would  clean  out  their 
boats,  light  a  fire  on  the  beach,  cook  the  remains  of 
their  bait  fish,  if  there  were  any,  and  eat  before 
going  up  to  Taormlna. 

I  walked  along  the  curve  of  the  tiny  beach,  for 
while  we  were  skirting  Isola  Bella  I  had  noticed 
through  an  opening  in  the  rocks,  a  pocket  overgrown 
with  acanthus;  and  I  had  a  mind  to  have  a  closer 
look  at  the  flowers.  It  hardly  costs  a  foot-wetting 
to  pass  the  ford  that  makes  the  broken  rock  an 
island.  Split  by  storm  and  sun,  eaten  by  the  waves, 
Isola  Bella  Is  fantastic,  a  caprice  of  nature.    There 


COLA  PESCE  87 

is  only  a  handful  of  it,  and  it  rises  not  many  meters 
above  the  water,  but  its  crags  and  precipices,  its 
beaches  and  caverns,  are  as  picturesque  as  they  are 
lilliputian. 

The  little  refuge  it  afforded  from  the  heat  was 
rock  shade,  for  the  scanty  leafage  of  its  sea-gray 
olive  trees  allowed  the  sun  to  pass  almost  without 
hindrance.  In  a  cleft  of  the  rock  grew  an  aloe  with 
a  flower  shoot  twenty  feet  tall  and  thick  as  a  young 
tree.  Beyond  this  in  a  tangled  glade  surrounded 
by  a  thick  scrub  of  resin-scented  "scornabeccu" — 
the  lentisk  of  Theocritus — rioted  acanthus.  The 
spikes  of  its  white,  purple-veined  flowers  rose  above 
my  head,  mixed  with  Queen  Anne's  lace — wild  car- 
rots. 

I  do  not  know  how  long  I  had  dallied,  dreading 
the  hot  climb  to  Taormina,  when  there  came  a  mut- 
ter of  thunder.  At  sea  level,  rain  in  June  is  almost 
a  prodigy.  Under  the  rock  parapet  that  skirts  the 
shore  it  was  impossible  to  see  Etna,  the  barometer; 
but  over  the  sea  the  sky  had  grown  threatening. 
Cola  and  Vanni  were  still  at  the  beach,  and  I  hurried 
back  to  the  fish  house,  taking  a  stool  in  the  doorway 
to  await  developments. 

To  my  query,  "Is  water  coming?"  Vanni  an- 
swered, "With  difficulty." 

Ammazzacarusi  was  of  a  different  opinion.  His 
nickname,  "Boykiller,"  handed  down  from  who 
knows  what  incident,  through  who  knows  how  many 
generations,  belied  the  mild,  white-haired  old  fisher- 


88  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

man  whose  boat,  the  Santa  Liberata,  was  drawn 
up  beside  Cola's.  Glancing  at  the  purple  and  gray 
cloud  masses  through  which  the  sun  still  managed 
to  dart  an  occasional  beam,  he  said  gloomily: 

8  "June  rain ; 
Ruin  in  train." 

"In  my  country,"  I  ventured,  "summer  rains  arc 
good  for  the  crops." 

Patiently,  painstakingly,  speaking  each  in  turn, 
they  explained  to  me  that  this  is  impossible.  Warm 
slow  scirocco  rains  mildew  the  flowers  of  the  olive 
and  the  vine,  while  the  hail  that  comes  with  a 
thunderstorm  cuts  whatever  it  touches.  If  in  my 
country  it  rained  often  in  summer,  how  could  any 
crops  be  raised? 

"You  understand?"  concluded  Vanni. 

I  assented,  though  I  had  scarcely  listened.  I  was 
studying  the  pictures  on  Occhietti's  boat.  He  had 
come  ashore  before  us  at  daylight,  and  had  left  the 
San  Pancrazio  nearer  the  fish  house  than  any  other 
of  the  dozen  boats  in  line,  so  that  I  could  measure 
her  against  the  tubby  Taormina  craft  and  see  that 
she  was  ten  feet  longer  than  our  boats,  though 
smaller  at  that  than  many  of  her  build  at  Catania, 
where  the  barche  mostly  carry  sails. 

But  it  was  her  shining  colors  that  caught  my  eyes 
— ^her  checker-board  sides  gleaming  in  yellow,  red 

^Acqua  di  Giugnu 
Ruvina  lu  munnu. 


COLA  PESCE  89 

and  green.  At  one  side  of  her  curved  bow-post 
was  painted  our  black  San  Pancrazio,  at  the  other 
his  companion  of  Taormina,  San  Pietro.  Her  short 
stern-post  carried  San  Giorgio,  young  and  valiant; 
and,  backed  against  him,  a  group  of  souls  in  the 
streaming  flames  of  purgatory.  Under  the  right 
bow  Agramonti  led  a  file  of  crusaders;  under  the 
left,  Italian  soldiers  of  to-day  who  fought  in  Tripoli. 
At  the  stern  a  fight  between  lion  and  gladiator  vied 
with  Judith  cutting  off  the  head  of  a  limp  and  bloody 
Holofernes.  Rows  of  cherubs  enlivened  the  free- 
board on  the  inside. 

Most  fascinating  of  all  were  the  San  Pancrazio's 
eyes.  Since  the  days  when  Egyptian  lords  voyaged 
in  painted  barges  on  the  Nile,  boats  have  had  eyes 
against  the  evil  eye.  At  Siracusa  the  blue-painted 
boats  that  cross  the  Porto  Piccolo  wear  pictured 
horns  against  witchcraft,  as  well  as  eyes  with  queer 
looped  brows.  At  Catania  there  are  boats  with  sharp 
protruding  beaks  like  those  of  swordfish,  and  the 
eyes  of  these  are  round  and  fishy.  But  the  eyes  of 
the  San  Pancrazio,  with  winking  lids  and  bushy 
brows,  were  grotesquely  human. 

"Fine,  eh?"  said  Ammazzacarusi,  noting  my  gaze. 

I  had  scarcely  answered,  "Very  beautiful !  Even 
in  the  darkest  night  the  San  Pancrazio  sees !"  when 
there  came  forked  lightning  and  a  rattle  of  hail. 
Vanni  was  whittling  pins  for  fastening  the  covers 
of  his  traps.    The  sight  of  his  knife  and  of  his  figure 


90  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

in  the  doorway  blotted  out  the  boats  and  brought 
back  to  mind  a  June  storm  of  the  year  before. 

In  memory  I  saw  myself  sitting  in  the  doorway 
of  the  church  of  the  Madonna  della  Rocca  at  Cas- 
tiglione  on  the  slope  of  Etna.  Beside  me  there  had 
been  a  bent  little  man  who  walked  slowly  with  a 
stick.  Behind  us  above  the  altar,  smiled  one  of 
Gaggini's  soft,  smooth  Madonnas,  a  golden  chain 
falling  between  her  hands.  In  front,  I  looked  out 
on  gray  and  yellow  roofs  of  tumbled  tiles  pelted  with 
hail.    The  bells  of  many  churches  were  tolling. 

Of  a  sudden  there  had  come  a  blinding  flash,  and 
the  old  sacristan  had  shrunk  behind  the  worm-eaten, 
iron-bossed  door,  tottering  forward  again  after  a 
minute  and  peering  into  the  blackness  to  spy  out 
the  direction  of  the  squall.  I  could  see  again  his 
shaking  arm  as,  opening  a  knife,  he  signed  with  it 
in  air  three  great  crosses,  finishing  with  a  furious 
stab  towards  the  wind,  his  lips  moving,  his  faded 
ayes  agleam. 

"That  is  a  prayer?"  I  asked;  every  "scongiuro" 
goes  by  the  name  of  prayer. 

"Yes,"  he  answered ;  "to  cut  the  squall." 

He  had  evaded  telling  me  the  words  of  the  charm ; 
an  incantation  is  not  taught  to  a  passing  stranger. 
"Three  Fathers,  three  Sons,  and  three  Holy  Ghosts" 
was  all  I  could  coax  out  of  him.  But  later,  when 
the  weather  had  lifted  and  his  rheumatic  old  wife 
hobbled  into  the  church  and  he  had  asked  her  with 


COLA  PESCE  91 

a  man's  superior  smile,  "Wert  thou  frightened?" 
he  turned  to  me  with  pride,  saying: 

"The  knife  cut  it;  you  saw.  I  have  more  than 
eighty-two  years,  I  have  seen  many  "things  and  I 
know  much  that  I  tell  to  no  one." 

"What  did  the  knife  cut?"  I  persisted. 

"The  dragon's  tail,"  he  had  said  concisely.  Water- 
spouts, whirlwinds  and  sometimes  hail  clouds  are 
dragons  because  of  their  tails. 

"The  malignant  spirit,"  his  wife  had  added. 

*Fraser  says  that  the  South  Slavonian  peasant 
shoots  at  hail  clouds  in  order  to  bring  down  the 
hags  that  are  in  them ;  but  for  these  two  old  Sicilians 
I  fancied  that  the  dragon  itself  was  the  evil  spirit — 
had  some  such  personality  as  had  the  south  wind 
for  the  Psylli  who,  Herodotus  says,  went  out  to 
fight  it  because  it  had  dried  up  their  reservoirs. 

Thinking  of  these  things  as  I  watched  Vanni's 
knife,  while  we  sat  in  the  doorway  of  the  fish  house, 
I  asked  him  if  he  knew  a  'razioni  to  drive  away  the 
hail,  or  to  cut  the  tail  of  the  waterspout  that  so  often 
on  these  coasts  brings  terror  to  fishermen. 

"No,"  he  said.  "There  are  such  'razioni  and  they 
are  useful,  for  there  is  peril  In  storm ;  but  I  do  not 
know  anybody  who  is  skilled  in  them." 

The  scudding  clouds  dropped  showers  here  and 
there  over  the  sea,  but  on  our  beach  there  fell  little 
water,  and  after  no  long  time  I  was  rising  for  the 

4  "Balder  the  Beautiful."  Vol.  i,  p.  345. 


92  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

homeward  climb  when  Ammazzacarusi  lifted  his 
brown  weazened  face  with  a  friendly  smile. 

"If  it  is  true,"  he  said,  "that  before  long  Vossia 
must  cross  the  sea  to  her  own  country,  this  knowl- 
edge would  be  useful  to  her.  There  is  one  who  cuts 
the  tail  of  the  dragon  for  us;  she  is  Filippa  'a 
Babba." 

I  thanked  him,  asked  to  have  the  lobsters  brought 
up  for  me  by  the  long  way  past  the  octroi,  and  took 
the  shorter  path. 

It  was  not  until  next  morning  that  I  went  to  find 
Filippa  'a  Babba,  who  is  Filippa  the  Idiot — only 
by  the  sort  of  inheritance  that  makes  Ammazza- 
carusi the  Boykiller.  Filippa  must  live  in  the  short 
Via  le  Mura;  but  who  wants  her  seeks  her  at  the 
wall  above  the  old  steep  road  that  comes  up  from 
Giardini  past  the  chapel  of  the  Madonna  delle 
Grazie ;  a  perch  commanding  every  man,  woman  and 
ass  that  climbs  out  of  the  valley  and  giving  a  broad 
outlook  over  the  sea. 

It  was  at  the  wall  that  I  found  her  with  two  or 
three  comari,  putting  a  black  patch  into  a  blue  apron. 
In  presence  of  the  other  women  I  did  not  venture 
questions  about  whirlwinds  or  waterspouts,  but  con- 
tented myself  with  looking  at  the  light  smoke  which 
rose  idly  from  the  black  cone  of  Etna. 

The  rain  of  the  day  before  had  been  heavy  on 
the  mountain,  for  a  long  yellow  tongue  of  roiled 
water  streamed  from  the  mouth  of  Alcantara,  and 
on  sea  and  slope  the  play  of  blues  and  greens  was 


COLA  PESCE  93 

as  vivid  as  in  winter.  The  air  was  so  still  that  the 
lemon  gardens  of  Capo  Schizo  were  doubled  in  the 
water. 

One  of  the  comari  who  sat  on  the  gray  round- 
topped  wall  was  knitting  the  sole  of  a  stocking  for 
her  husband  in  America.  I  picked  up  the  leg  which 
had  lain  at  her  side. 

"Why  is  it?"  she  asked,  "that  in  your  country 
stockings  make  themselves  in  one  piece?" 

"Why  do  they  make  themselves  here  in  two 
pieces?"  I  countered. 

Comare  Lia  smiled  indulgently  at  my  ignorance. 
"One  knows,"  she  said,  "that  an  American  stocking 
is  good  for  little  because  when  the  foot  is  worn  one 
must  throw  the  whole  away.  With  us  when  the  sole 
is  gone  one  throws  away  only  the  sole.  One  unsews 
it  and  puts  in  a  new  one." 

"But  who  will  sew  extra  feet  into  the  stockings 
of  your  husband  in  America?" 

"Who  knows?"  returned  Lia  so  soberly  that  I 
was  glad  to  hear  the  melancholy  call  of  a  peddler 
"The  lupine  man  is  passing!"  which  broke  up  the 
party. 

In  the  Via  le  Mura  there  had  appeared  the  scraggy 
mule  of  an  old  peasant  who  comes  to  town  with 
saddle-bags  full  of  lupines,  soaked  till  they  are 
sodden  to  take  out  their  bitterness,  and  from  the 
doorways  flocked  women  with  plates  and  bits  of 
paper,  bargaining  for  one  soldo's  worth,  or  two. 

Even  when  Filippa  and  I  were  left  alone  together, 


94  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

we  gossiped  of  twenty  things  before  I  had  courage 
to  say  "dragon"  to  the  plump  comfortable  looking 
old  body  whom  I  had  associated  always  with  clean- 
ing and  fine  ironing.  But  she  told  me  readily  enough 
that  an  old  fisherman  had  taught  her  grandmother 
how  to  cut  the  tail  of  the  dragon. 

"Sometimes  when  there  is  bad  weather,"  she  said, 
"the  water  goes  up  and  up  to  meet  the  sky,  and  the 
sky  comes  down,  down  to  meet  the  water,  to  destroy 
boats  and  trees  and  houses.  But  if  you  do  as  I  shall 
tell  you,  the  water  will  fall  and  the  tempest  become 
calm. 

"You  must  take  a  white-handled  knife  of  the  sort 
used  in  pruning  the  vine  shoots;  wait,"  she  said, 
"I  will  show  you." 

She  hurried  away  up  the  street  and  came  back 
after  a  minute  bringing  some  of  the  dried  vine  cut- 
tings that  are  used  for  firing  and  a  knife  so  small 
that  I  asked  if  my  white-handled  penknife  would 
not  answer. 

"Perhaps?"  she  said,  looking  at  It  doubtfully. 

"You  must  sign  three  crosses  in  air,"  she  con- 
tinued, turning  towards  the  sea,  knife  in  one  hand, 
a  bit  of  vine  in  the  other;  and  making  three  sweep- 
ing crosses  such  as  I  had  seen  at  Castiglione.  "And 
you  must  say: 

"Whither  goest  thou,  ugly  fate?" 

"  'I  go  to  a  bourne  lone  and  far, 
Where  never  singeth  hen, 
Nor  shineth  moon  or  star.' 


COLA  PESCE  95 

"There  drop  the  water  without  wrong. 

Father,  Son  and  Holy  Ghost, 

I  cut  the  tail;  remains  the  song." 

As  she  reached  the  words,  "I  cut  the  tail,"  she 
slashed  the  vine  shoot  viciously. 

"You  have  a  knife,"  she  concluded;  "do  you  wish 
that  I  give  you  some  vine  shoots  to  take  on  board 
ship  when  you  go  to  your  own  country  ?" 


CHAPTER  IV 
The  Cleft  Oak 

In  a  farmyard  near  the  middle  of  this  village  stands  at 
this  time  a  row  of  pollard  ashes  which  by  the  seams  and 
cicatrices  down  their  sides  manifestly  show  that  in  former 
times  they  have  been  cleft  asunder.  These  trees  when  young 
and  flexible  were  severed  and  held  open  by  wedges  while 
ruptured  children,  stripped  naked,  were  pushed  through  the 
apertures  under  a  persuasion  that  by  such  a  process  the  poor 
babes  would  be  cured  of  their  infirmity.  As  soon  as  the 
operation  was  over  the  tree  in  the  suffering  part  was  plastered 
with  loam  and  carefully  swathed  up.  If  the  part  coalesced 
and  soldered  together,  as  usually  fell  out  where  the  feat  was 
performed  with  any  adroitness  at  all,  the  party  was  cured; 
but  where  the  cleft  continued  to  gape,  the  operation,  it  was 
supposed,  would  prove  ineffectual. — Gilbert  White's  "Natural 
History  of  Selboiirne,"  letter  28,  Jan.  1776. 

For  a  day  or  two  after  the  festa  my  neighbors 
along  the  Via  BagnoH  Croce  talked  of  little  but 
Sant'  Alfio.  The  greatest  miracle  of  the  day,  they 
agreed,  had  been  worked  for  the  dumb  child  in  blue 
whom  we  had  seen  weeping  at  the  altar.  In  the 
church  she  had  not  spoken ;  but  later,  on  the  car  of 
the  saints,  she  had  said,  "The  bells  of  Sant'  Alfio 
are  ringing."  One  or  two  of  the  people  claimed 
to  have  been  near  enough  to  hear  her  voice. 

96 


THE  CLEFT  OAK  97 

"Now  Vossia  knows,"  they  said  with  satisfaction; 
"now  she  has  seen  with  her  own  eyes." 

I  was  standing  among  a  group  of  women  at  the 
door  of  Zu  Saru,  a  bronzed  fisherman  who  sat  mend- 
ing a  fish-trap  plaited  of  rushes.  "Are  there  any 
Taormina  children,"  I  inquired,  "whom  Sant'  Alfio 
has  liberated?" 

"But  yes,"  said  Zu  Saru's  wife,  Lucia,  who  is 
blue-eyed  like  her  husband,  and  whose  yellow  hair 
is  sun-bleached  to  the  color  of  tow.  Her  tone  was 
one  of  surprise.  "Here  is  Vincenzinu  of  Cumari 
Tidda.  He  was  ruptured,  and  Sant'  Alfio  did  the 
miracle  two  years  ago." 

Vincenzinu  is  Gna  Vanna  Pipituna's  grandson. 
He  was  then  a  thin,  silent  four-year-old,  brown  as 
a  Moor,  with  big,  sober  bright  eyes.  Zu  Saru 
dropped  the  trap  and  caught  him  as  he  trotted 
clumsily  past,  riding  a  stick,  and  pulled  up  his  one 
garment  to  show  that  his  flesh  was  whole  and 
smooth. 

So  it  happened  that  when  I  passed  Gna  Vanna's 
door,  and  she  called  me  inside  to  see  the  naked, 
uneasy  chicks  which  her  two  white  pigeons  had 
hatched  in  their  nest  behind  the  bed,  I  inquired  of 
her  about  Vincenzinu.  She,  too,  caught  the  solemn 
youngster  by  his  petticoat,  and  bribed  him  with 
green  almonds  to  stand  still  for  exhibition. 

It  was  not  true,  she  said,  that  Vincenzinu  owed 
his  liberation  to  Sant'  Alfio.  Tidda  had  indeed 
taken  him  to  Trecastagne  not  only  once  but  two 


98  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

years  in  succession.  He  had  lain  on  the  vara,  and 
his  father  had  sent  money  from  New  York  to  buy 
a  two-pound  wax  candle.  She  herself  had  given  a 
white  kid,  the  one  she  had  called  "the  little  flower." 
But  the  saint  did  nothing.  Tidda,  her  daughter-in- 
law,  had  been  in  despair.  "But  I  understand  such 
things,"  she  concluded;  "I  said  we  must  wait  till 
the  vigilia  of  San  Giovanni." 

Gna  Vanna  was  cleaning  hens'  heads  to  make 
broth  for  Vincenzinu's  sister,  who  was  ill.  She  had 
bought  three  heads  for  three  soldi  and  three  "in- 
teriori"  for  five  soldi,  and  was  so  scandalized  at 
the  high  cost  of  living  that  she  wandered  from  the 
subject. 

"Bad  Christians!"  she  ejaculated,  three  red  combs 
dangling  as  she  shook  three  necks  venomously.  "Bad 
Christians  who  ask  so  much  from  me !  I  am  a  poor 
unfortunate!  I  have  no  father;  mother  I  have  not; 
I  have  no  one.  I  go  barefoot,  I  must  live.  I  cannot 
pay  so  much." 

The  orphan  planted  the  tip  of  a  long,  lean  old 
forefinger  in  the  middle  of  her  forehead,  the  gesture 
that  calls  attention  to  right  ways  of  thinking;  and 
her  pale,  keen  eyes  snapped  as  she  appealed  to  me; 
"Vossia  persuades  herself?    Do  I  speak  well?" 

"But  the  vigilia  of  San  Giovanni?"  I  suggested. 

"San  Ciuvanuzzu?  Ah,  si;  Vincenzinu.  We 
passed  him  over  the  tree." 

"Over  the  tree?  You  made  Vincenzinu  pass 
over  the  tree?"    I  thought  I  had  not  heard  correctly. 


THE  CLEFT  OAK  99 

"Yes,  through  the  trunk  of  an  oak." 

"Through  the  trunk  of  an  acorn  tree?  Did  pass- 
ing through  an  oak  make  Vincenzinu  well  ?" 

"Of  course!" 

It  is  often  Gna  Vanna's  pleasure  to  assure  me, 
when  speaking  of  the  spells  and  charms  which  she 
calls  prayers,  "These  things  I  know;  no  one  else 
knows  them,  no  one  at  all;  and  I  tell  them  only 
to  you.  When  I  die  no  one  in  the  world  except 
you  will  know  them.  Daughter  I  have  not ;  you  are 
my  heir." 

As  one  thought  worthy  to  pass  the  old  wisdom 
on,  I  seldom  express  surprise  at  any  revelation.  In 
the  matter  of  the  oak  tree  I  asked,  as  if  the  answer 
were  a  matter  of  course,  "At  midnight?" 

"Yes ;  down  at  the  shore." 

She  told  me  at  some  length  how  she  and  her 
daughter-in-law,  and  a  party  of  friends  had  taken 
the  ruptured  child  down  to  the  shore  at  Isola  Bella, 
where  they  had  made  a  slit  through  a  young  oak, 
and  then  under  her  direction  had  passed  him  three 
times  through  the  gash.  "Three  times  they  made 
him  enter."  Then  they  tied  up  the  tree  and  ate 
and  drank  toasts  as  if  it  had  been  a  baptismal  festa. 
Vincenzinu  slept  under  the  tree,  and  in  the  morning 
he  felt  better.  After  a  year  they  had  visited  the 
oak  and  had  found  it  healthy  and  grown  together. 
Vincenzinu's  hurt  had  grown  together  also;  he  was 
no  longer  ruptured. 


loo  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

"I  wish  you  had  told  me  at  the  time,"  I  said; 
"I  should  have  liked  to  go  with  you." 

Gna  Vanna  promised  that  if  ever  she  heard  of 
another  child  who  needed  to  pass  through  the  tree, 
she  would  tell  me  in  season;  but  the  twenty-third 
of  June  came  and  went,  and  I  heard  nothing  more 
about  the  matter.  I  learned  by  inquiry  that  this 
old,  old  cure  by  sympathetic  magic  is  still  well  known 
in  Eastern  Sicily.  My  landlady  gossiped  to  me 
about  a  neighbor  who  had  been  subjected  to  it  in 
childhood,  but  who  nevertheless  had  not  been  sound 
enough  to  do  his  military  service.  The  ceremony 
seemed  not  uncommon,  but  I  had  given  up  hope 
of  ever  seeing  it  when,  a  year  later  at  the  approach 
of  San  Giovanni,  Gna  Vanna  beckoned  me  mysteri- 
ously inside  her  door  one  morning  to  announce  that 
only  the  night  before  her  services  had  been  spoken 
for  in  behalf  of  a  lad,  whose  parents  had  not  been 
able  to  take  him  to  Trecastagne.  She  had  already 
sent  a  message  to  her  cumpari,  Vanni  Nozzulu, 
John  of  the  olive  stone,  to  ask  if  he  would  help  her, 
as  he  had  done  in  the  case  of  Vincenzinu.  Would 
I  really  like  to  make  one  of  the  party? 

The  Sicilian  ritual  requires  that  the  ruptured  child 
be  handed  through  the  tree  by  a  man  and  woman 
who  "make  their  names"  on  St.  John's  day ;  that  is, 
who  are  called  Giovanni  and  Giovanna.  Gna 
Vanna's  repute  as  a  witch  makes  her  an  especially 
appropriate  Jane  to  act  as  mistress  of  such  a 
ceremony. 


THE  CLEFT  OAK  loi 

I  did  not  accept  at  once  my  invitation,  though 
I  did  not  doubt  Vanna's  good  faith.  Whether  she 
or  her  compare,  or  the  parents  of  the  child  had  any 
substantial  faith  in  the  ancient  formula  they  pro- 
posed to  repeat,  who  could  know?  That  the  force 
of  tradition,  dying  but  not  dead,  would  make  the 
experiment  seem  to  them  perhaps  useful,  certainly 
not  harmful,  was  beyond  question.  I  held  acceptance 
in  reserve  only  to  make  sure  that  nothing  should  be 
added  to  the  function  or  taken  away  from  it  be- 
cause of  the  expected  presence  of  an  outsider. 

From  day  to  day  Gna  Vanna  chatted  of  the 
preparations.  This  time  they  were  going  into  the 
hills,  not  down  to  the  shore.  Petru  Barbarussa, 
the  boy's  father,  had  already  found  a  likely  tree.  It 
would  be  moonlight ;  they  would  take  bread,  cheese 
and  fish,  and  make  a  supper  after  the  ceremony. 
Cumpari  Vanni  would  bring  wine.  In  the  late  after- 
noon of  the  twenty-third  she  reported  that  every- 
thing was  ready,  except  the  supper;  she  would  like 
to  give  that  herself ;  "but  I  am  scarce"  she  concluded 
with  a  shrewd  eye-glance.  It  was  then  that  I  agreed 
to  come  and  to  supplement  her  scarceness  of  money, 
if  she  would  buy  for  me  the  peas,  beans,  nuts  and 
seeds  necessary  to  complete  the  festa. 

Peter  of  the  Red  Beard  is  a  fisherman.  His 
Pippinu  I  had  known  from  the  child's  babyhood. 
Pippinu  was  at  this  time  a  white,  sickly  sprout  of 
a  six-year-old,  red-headed,  pale-eyed,  ill-fed;  yet 
withal  an  ingratiating  little  soul.    When  I  stopped 


I02  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

hesitatingly  at  his  door  at  nine  o'clock  that  evening 
his  shy  grin  of  welcome  made  me  even  more 
ashamed  than  I  had  expected  to  be  of  gratifying 
curiosity  at  the  expense  of  such  a  weakly  mite  of 
humanity. 

Pippinu  lives  at  the  foot  of  the  broad  "ladder" 
that  goes  up  from  a  confusion  of  narrow  ways  to 
the  street  known  of  all  tourists,  the  Via  Teatro 
Greco.  His  is  the  usual  house  of  one  room,  its 
smoky  wall  lighted  only  from  the  doorway,  its  floor 
of  broken  bricks  littered  with  water  jars,  brambles 
for  the  fire,  confused  heaps  of  nets  and  dingy  house- 
hold utensils.  Gna  Vanna  had  not  yet  come,  and 
in  the  dim  interior  Barbarussa,  a  gaunt  man  of  forty 
with  a  red  stubble  beard,  barefooted,  wearing  cotton 
shirt  and  trousers,  was  preparing  lanterns,  ropes 
and  the  like  for  our  excursion. 

Donna  Catina,  Pippinu's  mother,  was  putting 
down  children  for  the  night;  two  boys  on  one  side 
of  the  room,  two  girls  on  the  other,  the  pallets 
partly  screened  by  ragged  sacking.  The  big  mar- 
riage bed  stood  as  usual  in  an  alcove  at  the  back, 
cut  off  by  worn  red  curtains. 

There  was  not  much  other  furniture:  Two  small 
tables,  a  chest,  chairs,  a  washtrough  full  of  soapy 
water,  a  rack  holding  bottles  and  dishes,  prints  of 
the  Madonna  and  saints,  family  clothing. 

Donna  Catina  was  pretty  once;  she  might  be 
pretty  now,  if  her  straggling  hair  were  ever  combed 
and  her  untidy  dress  were  ever  buttoned  at  the 


THE  CLEFT  OAK  103 

throat.  She  is  not  yet  thirty,  but  her  oval  face  is 
thin  and  faded,  and  her  smile  flickers  anxiously. 
While  we  waited,  she  showed  me  by  the  light  of  an 
ill-smelling  lamp  the  two  treasures  of  the  household, 
a  "snapshot"  of  'her  husband's  first  wife  taken  by 
some  tourist,  and  a  wax  image  of  the  baby  Christ, 
framed  in  a  wooden  box  with  a  glass  front. 

At  last  Cumpari  Vanni  appeared,  a  rugged  con- 
tadino,  better-nourished  than  the  others.  His  straw 
hat  was  so  huge  it  interfered  with  the  big  basket  he 
carried  on  his  shoulder.  Behind  him  came  Gna 
Vanna,  limping  with  a  touch  of  rheumatism,  and 
Pippinu's  aunt.  Donna  Ciccia,  whose  good  brown 
face,  framed  in  its  yellow  kerchief,  beamed  in  an- 
ticipation of  the  adventure. 

When  our  party  of  seven  started  at  ten  o'clock, 
the  moon  was  not  up ;  and,  once  outside  the  village, 
we  lighted  two  square  lanterns  not  bigger  than  water 
glasses.  Our  way  took  us  past  the  Messina  gate 
and  then  down  beyond  the  Campo  Santo  into  a 
rough  path  that  dips  into  a  fold  of  the  hills,  a  short- 
cut to  the  shore  north  of  Taormina,  It  was  a  black 
descent;  the  circle  of  mountains  almost  cut  out  the 
sky.  There  was  not  a  breath  of  air.  The  hot  earth 
exhaled  an  aromatic  smell  of  pennyroyal. 

The  two  men  walked  ahead,  talking  in  low  tones 
of  the  scarcity  of  fish,  of  the  drought,  of  the  light 
wheat  crop.  Donna  Catina  came  behind  them  with 
Pippinu  clinging  mute  and  frightened  to  her  hand. 
Next  came  Donna  Ciccia  with  the  second  lantern. 


I04  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

flashing  it  now  and  then  to  discover  a  sprig  of  the 
tall-growing  shrub;  "for  the  presepio,"  she  said. 
Pennyroyal  gathered  and  dried  on  the  eve  of  San 
Giovanni  blossoms  fresh  at  Christmas. 

Gna  Vanna  grasped  my  arm,  groaning,  "My  leg 
hurts  enough  and  too  much.  I  cannot  walk.  I 
cannot  sleep.  There  has  gone  from  me  the  love 
of  eating.  To-day  I  cooked  myself  one  soldo's 
worth  of  spaghetti,  one  soldo's  worth  and  nothing 
more.    I  want  to  die,  for  I  cannot  suffer  any  more." 

She  interrupted  her  lament  to  point  out  a  big  toad 
that  hopped  across  our  path,  calling  it  a  good  omen ; 
then  went  on,  "They  call  me  lame,  I  who,  Vossia 
knows,  have  always  walked  better  than  any  of 
them."  And  she  stepped  out  so  vigorously  that  with 
difficulty  I  kept  up  with  her 

After  perhaps  half  an  hour  we  dropped  the  basket 
under  a  big  walnut  tree,  left  the  path,  and  began 
scrambling  up  the  parched  mountain  side.  It  was 
a  familiar  slope,  where  in  autumn  blossom  narcissus, 
cyclamen  and  Jack-in-the-pulpit,  which  Sicilian 
children  call  the  pipe;  but  in  the  blackness  I  could 
not  recognize.a  landmark.  Barbarussa  had  come  by 
daylight  to  choose  us  an  oak,  but  Gna  Vanna  refused 
to  accept  the  gnarled,  stunted  little  tree  he  had 
pitched  upon.  Though  small,  it  was  old,  and  would 
not  augur  long  life  for  Pippinu. 

The  men  climbed  higher  while  we  women  clung 
together.  A  screech  owl  hooted ;  Gna  Vanna  crossed 
herself,   and   Donna   Ciccia   muttered,    "Beautiful 


THE  CLEFT  OAK  105 

Mother  of  the  Rock,  deliver  us!"  Donna  Catina 
touched  something  in  the  bosom  of  her  dress. 

After  a  long  wait  the  men  came  back.  They 
had  found  a  better  oak,  but  high  on  a  cliff  side 
so  steep  that  without  Gna  Vanna's  help  I  should 
have  been  slow  in  reaching  it.  "My  leg  hurts,"  she 
mourned,  as  she  dragged  me  up  the  baked  and 
crumbly  steep.  There  was  no  vegetation  but  bunches 
of  a  wiry  grass  on  which  the  feet  slipped,  and  which 
cut  the  hands. 

The  new  oaklet  stood  on  a  narrow  shelf  with 
a  few  dwarf  fichi  dTndia  and  wild  plum  trees  above, 
and  at  one  side  a  recently  planted  baby  olive.  It 
may  have  been  four  feet  tall,  a  straight  slender  stem 
carrying  at  top  two  waving  brushes  of  the  small, 
close-growing,  much  indented  leaves  of  the  Sicilian 
oak.    We  sat  down  beside  it. 

It  was  not  yet  half-past  eleven;  nothing  could 
be  done  until  midnight.  To  save  oil  for  our  return 
we  put  out  the  lanterns,  and  stuck  a  candle  atop 
of  a  stone  under  the  oak,  whose  dark  glossy  leaves 
rustled  without  wind  as  if  it  shivered  before  coming 
pain. 

Pippinu  went  to  sleep  in  his  mother's  arms.  The 
yellow  point  of  candle  flame  made  blacker  the  black 
outlines  of  Monte  Ziretto  and  Monte  Veneretta  that 
loomed  silent  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  ravine. 
There  was  no  sound  but  the  sleepy  "Frisci,  frisci, 
frisci"  of  a  belated  cicala. 

"What  does  the  cicaledda  say?"  I  asked. 


io6  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

"I  am  wrong,  I  die,"  answered  Donna  Ciccia;  and 
she  told  us  the  tale  of  the  idle  cicala  and  the  in- 
dustrious ant,  as  she  had  heard  it  from  her  elders; 
as  they  heard  it  from  their  "ancients" ;  for  on  the 
lips  of  the  South  some  of  the  old  Greek  tales  have 
never  died. 

The  silence  that  fell  again  was  broken  by  the  hoot 
of  the  cucca.  "Some  one  must  die,"  shuddered 
Donna  Catina. 

"The  cicaledda,"  suggested  Vanni. 

Gna  Vanna  settled  her  bad  leg  more  comfortably, 
announcing,  "When  there  passes  the  pain  in  my  leg, 
I  shall  carry  two  candles  to  the  dear  Madonna  of 
the  Chain." 

She  told  us  again  how  Vincenzinu,  her  grandson, 
had  passed  "over  the  little  oak"  and  how  much 
better  he  had  felt  the  next  morning,  Vincenzinu's 
father,  Turiddu,  who  had  made  already  two  voyages 
to  New  York,  was  about  to  sail  again.  "He  says," 
she  continued,  "that  they  call  our  cucuzzi  'squashes' ; 
is  it  true,  Vossia  ?" 

I  praised  Turiddu's  English,  and  confirmed  his 
tales  of  "treni  in  aria"  and  "treni  suttu  terra" — 
elevated  and  subway  trains.  Turiddu  had  told  his 
mother  that  in  America  one  does  not  enjoy  life, 
for  there  is  no  music  in  the  piazza  on  Sunday.  The 
air,  too,  is  not  so  fine  as  in  Sicily,  and  the  fish  have 
not  the  same  good  taste. 

"That  would  be  true,"  said  Barbarussa,  "for  even 
the  fish  taken  at  Catania,  one  hour  from  here,  have 


THE  CLEFT  OAK  107 

not  the  same  good  taste  as  the  fish  of  our  own  sea 
of  Taormina." 

A  few  minutes  before  twelve  by  Cumpari  Vanni's 
watch  Gna  Vanna  gave  the  signal  for  us  to  sign 
ourselves  with  the  cross.  Then  the  party  repeated 
in  unison  three  paternosters,  three  aves  and  three 
gloria  patris. 

When  these  were  finished  Cumpari  Vanni  took 
the  little  tree  by  its  two  poor  leafy  branches,  and 
slowly  and  dexterously  split  it  with  his  hands.  To 
use  a  knife,  Gna  Vanna  said,  would  be  unlucky. 
When  he  had  opened  it  two-thirds  of  the  way  to 
the  ground,  he  put  one  side  of  the  top  into  my  hands 
and  the  other  side  into  Barbarussa's.  By  traditional 
usage  this  made  me  cumari — co-mother — with  the 
parents  of  Pippinu.  We  stood  North  and  South 
of  the  oak. 

Pippinu  began  to  whine  as  his  mother  delivered 
him,  cold  and  sleepy,  to  Gna  Vanna,  who  unbuttoned 
and  pulled  off  his  short  patched  breeches.  Custom 
prescribes  that  the  child  be  naked;  but  Pippinu's 
screams  became  so  shrill,  and  his  thin,  dusty  legs 
waved  so  protestingly  that  she  left  him  his  shirt 
and  cuddled  him,  cold,  sleepy  and  afraid,  in  her 
old  arms,  promising  sweets  to  eat  in  the  morning. 
She  had  taken  off  her  white  headkerchief,  and  the 
yellow  hoops  of  her  earrings  gleamed  in  the  flicker- 
ing candle  light  that  brought  nose  and  chin  gro- 
tesquely close  together.  She  would  have  looked  a 
witch,  if  she  had  not  looked  a  good  grandmother. 


io8  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

The  split  in  the  tree  ran  East  and  West.  When 
Pippinu's  sobs  had  subsided  into  disconsolate  little 
chokes,  Cumari  Vanni  and  Cumpari  Vanni  placed 
themselves  in  front  of  it  and  behind,  making  a  cross 
with  Barbarussa  and  me.  Then  Vanna,  holding  out 
the  boy,  began: 

"Cumpari  Vanni!" 

He  answered,  "Cumari  Vanna!" 

"Cumpari  Vanni!" 

"Cumari  Vanna,  What  do  you  wish?" 

Vanna  replied: 

^Pigghia  stu  figghiu 
E  lu  passa  cca  banna; 
A  nomu  di  Sanciuvanni, 
Lu   dugnu  ruttu,  dammilu   sanu. 

At  the  word  "pigghia"  Gna  Vanna  passed  Pip- 
pinu  feet  first  across  the  split  betwen  the  two  halves 
of  the  tree  into  the  hands  of  Vanni,  who,  when  he 
had  received  him,  began  in  his  turn,  "Cumari 
Vanna!"  They  repeated  the  formula  until  Pippinu 
had  passed  from  one  to  the  other  through  the  tree 
three  times.  There  was  no  attempt  to  be  impressive 
and  nothing  like  jesting.  They  made  a  plain  work- 
ing conversation. 

When  Vanna  had  received  the  child  back  for  the 
last  time,  she  set  him  on  his  feet,  still  frightened 

^  Take  this  child  and  pass  him  back  to  me  again ;  In  the 
name  of  San  Giovanni,  I  give  him  you  broken,  give  him  me 
sound. 


The  Little  Oak  Tree 


THE  CLEFT  OAK  109 

and  shivering,  a  wee  pathetic  smile  dawning  on  his 
face.  Holding  him  at  her  side,  her  hands  on  his 
shoulders,  she  finished  her  incantation : 

Praised  and  thanked  be  the  most  holy  Sacrament,  the  great 
Mother  of  God,  Mary,  and  all  the  (heavenly)  company.  San 
Giovanni,  in  the  name  of  Jesus  close  this  flesh.  In  the 
name  of  Jesus,  blessed  San  Giovanni,  close  this  hurt;  and 
may  Pippinu  suffer  nothing  more.  Take  away  all  the  peril 
and  the  evil  suggestion,  dear  good  San  Giovanni.  Praised 
and  thanked  be  the  most  holy  Sacrament,  the  great  Mother 
of  God,  Mary  and  all  the  heavenly  company! 

-  A  little  dazed,  the  child  wavered  across  to  his 
mother,  who  dressed  him  while  Cumpari  Vanni 
bound  up  the  tree,  winding  the  new  rope  that  Bar- 
barussa  had  provided  in  a  continuous  coil  to  cover 
the  entire  length  of  the  slit,  while  he  and  Vanna 
repeated  together:  "As  this  tree  closes,  so  may 
Pippinu's  rupture  close." 

If  the  tree  healed  within  a  year,  Vanna  said, 
Pippinu  would  heal ;  if  not,  Pippinu  would  not  get 
well. 

Vanna  does  not  know  how  passage  through  the 
tree  was  to  help  Pippinu.  To  her,  Gaidoz,  whose 
monograph  aims  to  prove  the  root  idea  to  be  a  shift- 
ing of  trouble  from  Pippinu  to  the  tree ;  or  Frazer, 
who  thinks  that  an  escaping  Pippinu  leaves  a  pur- 
suing malady  caught  in  the  cleft;  or  Baring  Gould, 
who  sees  a  new  Pippinu  reborn  free  of  old  ills, 
would  be  equally  meaningless.  She  does  not  need 
to  speculate  about  the  matter;  she  has  inherited  a 


no  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

practice  that  comes  down  to  her  perhaps  from  the 
elder  Cato,  who  advised  that  a  green  spHt  reed  be 
tied  to  a  dislocated  limb  during  the  recitation  of  a 
spell,  the  two  then  being  tied  together  to  heal  in 
sympathetic  harmony. 

Vanna's  invocation  is  a  prayer.  People  call  her 
a  witch,  but  they  are  wrong,  since  she  works  only 
"things  of  God."  Many  a  time  she  has  said  to  me, 
**It  is  always  for  good  and  never  for  ill.  Release 
(from  evil)  yes;  bind,  never!  Am  I  a  Christian, 
or  am  I  not?" 

If  the  priests  do  not  approve  of  certain  practices, 
it  is  because  the  priests  have  not  the  devotion.  Her 
thought  does  not  separate  religion  and  magic;  each 
is  an  appeal  to  superior  powers;  but  in  daily  life, 
since  the  priests  refuse  to  make  appeals  of  various 
necessary  sorts,  wise  people  must  make  them,  or 
cause  them  to  be  made,  for  themselves. 

After  rendering  first  aid  to  the  oak,  we  slipped 
and  slid  down  the  hillside  to  the  path,  where  under 
the  walnut  tree  we  laid  out  the  baptismal  supper. 
Barbarussa  had  brought  three  big  round  brown 
loaves  of  bread,  a  few  early  figs  and  a  plate  of  little 
cold  fried  fish,  and  Cumpari  Vanni  had  added  a 
small  form  of  sheep's  milk,  cheese  and  two  bottles 
of  wine.  Vanni  cut  the  bread  with  his  evil-looking 
knife.  We  hung  our  lanterns  to  the  thorn  bushes 
and  ate  with  satisfaction.  Gna  Vanna  had  not  for- 
gotten the  feast. 

It  was  time  for  tlie  moon  to  be  up ;  this  we  knew 


THE  CLEFT  OAK  iii 

by  a  faint  light  above  the  mountain  tops;  but  she 
never  gave  a  real  look  into  our  cup  among  the  hills. 
My  new  honor  as  godmother  gave  me  the  first  easy 
time-worn  toast : 

*  Good  and  fine  is  this  wine ; 
A  toast  to  Pippinu,  this  is  mine. 

Pippinu's  father  followed  with  the  second: 

Good  as  bread  is  this  wine; 
Vanni  made  it  from  his  vine. 

I  have  yet  to  see  the  Sicilian  who  could  not 
rhyme  toasts  as  long  as  breath  held  out. 

Dawn  was  in  the  sky  before  we  reached  home. 
As  we  climbed  out  of  the  gorge  Donna  Catina 
stopped  to  touch  the  ground,  and  then  kissed  her 
fingers,  saying,  "I  kiss  the  earth;  God  save  us  from 
traveling  again  this  fearsome  road."  She  opened 
the  bosom  of  her  dress  to  show  me,  stitched  into  her 
clothing,  the  flat  thin  gold  cross  she  had  worn  as 
protection  against  the  evil  spirits  that  infest  the 
night, 

"You  and  I  saw  the  botta,  Vossia,"  said  Vanna, 
shaking  her  wise  old  head  reassuringly;  "that  toad 
may  have  been  a  'donna  di  fora,'  one  of  the  little 
people." 

Within  a  few  days  I  left  Sicily,  and  it  was  more 
than  a  year  before  I  saw  Pippinu  again.    Time  had 

^  Chistu  vinu  e  beddu  e  finu, 
Facciu  brindisi  a  Pippinu. 


112  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

not  changed  the  house  at  the  foot  of  the  great 
scalinata,  except  that,  hung  to  the  side  of  the  bed 
in  the  alcove,  was  now  a  cradle,  made  of  a  piece 
of  sacking  that  swung  by  ropes  from  the  bedf rame. 

Donna  Catina  was  not  at  home.  Barbarussa  said 
she  had  gone  "To  make  the  day's  expenses  (for 
provisions)."  More  gaunt  and  good-humored  than 
ever,  he  was  sweeping  the  floor.  *T  am  making  the 
cleaning  of  the  house,"  he  added,  explaining  an 
occupation  not  unusual  among  the  fishermen.    . 

After  a  few  minutes  Catina  appeared  carrying  in 
her  arms  the  tenant  of  the  cradle,  ten-months-old 
Giovanninu,  named  for  the  saint  we  had  invoked 
when  his  brother  passed  over  the  tree.  "Four  teeth 
he  has,"  she  said  proudly,  as  soon  as  we  had  ex- 
changed greetings,  prying  open  the  youngster's 
mouth  to  show  me  his  four  new  teeth.  "He  creeps, 
and  he  can  stand  alone." 

She  coaxed  him  to  smile,  smoothing  his  red  hair, 
tapping  his  plump  rosy  cheeks.  He  was  indeed  a 
fine  boy  compared  with  his  thin  hungry-looking 
sisters,  grown  too  large  to  be  nourished  with  their 
mother's  milk. 

"But  where  is  Pippinu?"  I  asked  finally. 

"At  the  cobbler's,"  said  the  little  girls  in  chorus, 
darting  from  the  house  to  fetch  him. 

My  godson,  being  now  seven  years  old,  had  be- 
come one  of  the  men  of  the  household.  He  was 
apprenticed  to  a  cobbler,  who,  being  cumpari  with 
Barbarussa,  asked  no  fee,  and  sometime  would  pay 


THE  CLEFT  OAK  113 

wages.  Meantime  he  did  not  give  food,  as  seemed 
obvious  when  Pippinu  sidled  bashfully  into  the 
room,  white  and  frail  as  always.    • 

While  the  children  were  gone  Catina  had  been 
rummaging  in  the  big  wooden  chest  to  find  the 
certificate  of  Pippinu's  marks  in  the  Taormina 
school.  He  had  finished  the  second  elementary  class, 
and  pointed  out  with  small  leather-stained  fingers 
how  well  he  had  done  in  reading  and  writing. 
Would  he  ever  go  to  school  again?  Perhaps;  they 
hoped  he  might  go  one  more  year. 

That  afternoon  Pippinu's  aunt  went  with  me  to 
inspect  the  tree.  It  was  not  the  first  excursion 
Donna  Ciccia  and  I  had  made  together,  and  I  do  not 
know  a  better  companion.  Her  brown,  leathery 
face  and  sun-strained  eyes,  her  brows  arched  in  a 
perpetual  question,  bear  witness  that  life  has  not 
handled  her  gently ;  but  to  every  buffet  she  opposes 
a  jest.  I  have  never  seen  her  wear  shoes,  though 
she  saved  money  for  months  to  buy  a  pair  for  mass 
on  Sundays.  She  says  the  cobbler — ^he  to  whom 
Pippinu  is  apprenticed — made  them  too  tight;  per- 
haps her  good  muscular  feet  rebelled  at  confinement. 
Even  for  this  visit  of  ceremony,  she  left  them  in 
her  chest,  that  family  hold-all. 

It  was  late  July.  For  that  very  afternoon  Hesiod 
might  have  written  of  the  summer  resting  time, 
"When  the  artichoke  flowers,  and  the  tuneful 
cicala,  perched  on  a  tree,  pours  forth  a  shrill  song 
ofttimes  from  under  his  wings."    The  white  smoke 


114  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

of  Etna  rose  straight  and  slow  into  a  white  and 
cloudless  sky.  The  sea  was  blue-white.  There  was 
a  bluish  haze  over  all  the  world.  It  was  a  day  of 
powerful  heat,  when  the  stones  baked  under  foot, 
and  the  long  walls  scorched  the  hand.  Even  in  the 
rock  shade  of  the  fold  among  the  hills  the  leaves 
of  the  almond  trees  were  turning  yellow  before  the 
fruit  had  ripened,  and  the  thick  fleshy  leaves  of  the 
fichi  d'lndia  were  drooping. 

We  found  the  little  tree  still  wound  tightly.  It 
showed  a  long,  dark  scar  well  closed.  Its  crown 
of  leaves  was  thick  and  vigorous.  It  had  grown 
a  trifle,  was  more  than  four  feet  tall.  It  held  its 
head  up  courageously  in  face  of  the  scorched  moun- 
tains opposite,  which  showed  their  bleakest  summer 
aspect.  The  drought  for  a  year  had  been  extreme. 
Again  there  was  nothing  green  under  foot;  the  air 
was  heavy  with  the  pungent  smell  of  pennyroyal. 

We  rested  in  the  warm  silence.  The  air  was  so 
still  we  might  have  thought  Pan  had  not  yet  waked 
from  his  siesta.  Donna  Ciccia  pulled  her  knitting 
work  out  of  the  pockets  of  her  apron,  and  I  read 
to  her  the  words  of  the  goatherd  in  Theocritus: 
"We  may  not  pipe  in  the  noontide;  't  is  Pan  we 
dread,  who  truly  at  this  hour  rests  weary  from  the 
chase." 

By  and  by  Donna  Ciccia  dropped  her  needles.  "I 
used  to  come  here  when  I  was  a  girl,"  she  said, 
"to  pick  up  wood.     Nowadays  my  Christian  has  a 


THE  CLEFT  OAK  115 

vote,  but  they  have  not  left  us  any  place  to  pick 
up  wood." 

Again  for  a  long  time  v^^e  said  nothing.  In  one 
of  her  pockets  she  had  brought  green  almonds ;  with 
her  strong  teeth  she  cracked  them  easily.  It  was 
nearly  five  o'clock,  and  there  was  a  faint  air  stirring, 
when  we  rose  to  begin  the  homeward  road.  We 
knew  the  hour  because  on  the  path  below  fishermen 
were  going  down  to  the  sea.    • 

"The  tree  has  come  good,  it  is  healed,"  said 
Donna  Ciccia.  We  did  not  take  off  the  cord,  lest 
Pippinu  should  take  off  his  bandage.  It  has  been 
agreed  that  while  the  tree  wore  a  truss  Pippinu 
should  wear  one  also.  "It  has  come  good,"  she 
repeated ;  "but  as  to  Pippinu  one  does  not  yet  know." 

But  perhaps  when  he  is  older,  a  little  surgery  may 
help  us  find  out  about  Pippinu. 


CHAPTER  V 
The  Hairy  Hand 

Fel  Fi!  Fol  Fum! 

I  smell  the  blood  of  an  Englishman ! 

Be  he  'live  or  be  he  dead, 

I'll  grind  his  bones  to  make  my  bread! 

The  moon  was  coming  up  large  and  round  over 
the  shoulder  of  Monte  Tauro.  The  air  was  heavy 
with  the  scent  of  jasmine.     The  summer  evening 

was  peaceful  and  still.    *Tf  the  war  lasts "  said 

the  Signora  L ,  drawing  forward  a  chair  for 

me  in  the  doorway  of  her  shop.  She  did  not  finish 
the  sentence,  but  I  knew  she  was  thinking,  "there 
will  be  no  tourists  next  winter,  and  no  work." 

Donna  Peppina's  Mazza,  trudging  homeward 
from  vespers,  paused  a  minute  to  say,  *T  have  taken 
the  holy  benediction !"  Her  brown,  wrinkled  face 
expressed  well-considered  self-satisfaction.  "But — ■ 
what  is  that?    Thunder?" 

"Cannon,"  answered  the  Signora. 

It  was  that  August  evening  when  the  German 
ships,  Breslau  and  Goeben,  leaving  the  port  of  Mes- 
sina, ran  the  gauntlet  of  the  French  and  British 
fleets.  Not  two  hours  earlier  we  had  watched  the 
silent  passage,  one  by  one,  of  dark,  low  war-vessels. 

Ii6 


THE  HAIRY  HAND  117 

"A  verra?"  pursued  Donna  Peppina.  "Is  it  the 
war?  It  can't  last  long."  But  the  tone  was  not 
as  cheerful  as  the  words,  and  the  little  bent  figure, 
muffled  in  its  black  shawl,  hurried  uneasily  away. 

A  neighbor's  child  sat  down  at  our  feet,  stuffing 
her  fingers  into  her  ears,  as  from  the  quiet,  moon- 
lighted water  there  came  another  sullen  boom, 
"Sarina,"  I  suggested,  "ask  the  Signora  to  tell  us  a 
story." 

The  Signora  smiled  indulgently.  In  those  tragic 
days  we  whiled  away  with  stories  many  an  evening. 
She  thought  a  minute,  following  with  her  eyes  a 
man  who  was  hurrying  supperward,  carrying 
cracked  ice  on  a  folded  kerchief.  Then  she  began, 
"When  I  was  a  little  girl  in  Caltagirone  and  my 
grandmother  used  to  tell  me  stories,  the  one  I  liked 
best  of  all  was  'The  Hairy  Hand.'  " 

"Once  upon  a  time  there  was  a  poor  man  who 
had  four  daughters.  Every  morning  he  went  into 
the  country  to  gather  soup  greens  to  sell.  When 
summer  came  and  the  great  sun  burnt  the  country 
bare,  the  poor  man's  children  must  have  died  of 
hunger,  had  not  the  neighbors  given  them  sometimes 
a  glass  of  wine,  sometimes  a  little  oil,  sometimes  a 
bit  of  bread. 

"One  day  when  the  poor  father  had  found  noth- 
ing at  all  to  put  into  his  shoulder  bags  except  a 
few  wild  blackberries,  he  saw  in  the  field  on  the 
other  side  of  a  hedge  of  fichi  d'India  a  fine  plant  of 
wild   fennel.     He  scrambled  through  the  thorny 


ii8  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

hedge,  but  no  sooner  had  he  reached  out  his  hand 
to  gather  the  most  beautiful  plant  than  he  heard, 
*Cing-a-li !  Cling-a-li !  Cing-a-li !'  a  sound  as  of  some- 
thing dropping.  He  looked  with  all  his  eyes,  but 
could  see  nothing.  He  pulled  again,  and  again  he 
heard,  'Cing-a-li!  Cling-a-li!  Cing-a-li!'  as  if  a  little 
bell  were  ringing  or  money  dropping.  He  looked 
again,  but  could  find  nothing.  The  third  time  he 
pulled  the  plant  up  by  the  roots,  and  he  saw  a  hole 
which  grew  and  grew  until  it  became  the  mouth 
of  a  great  cave  and  out  of  the  cave  there  came  a 
giant  fierce  and  monstrous.  He  was  a  wicked 
dragon,  who  killed  every  person  that  passed  and 
ate  the  flesh.  If  he  was  not  hungry,  he  would  cut 
off  head  and  hands  and  throw  the  body  into  a  great 
locked  room. 

"At  first  the  dragon  did  not  see  the  poor  father. 
He  stood  in  the  mouth  of  the  cave  and  said: 

What  a  good  smell  of  Christian  meat! 
If  it  I  see,  I'll  swallow  it  neat! 

"The  poor  father  said,  'Give  me  your  blessing, 
your  Excellency.' 

"Then  the  dragon  said,  'Come  in,  good  man;  sit 
down.' 

"The  poor  father  went  into  the  cave  and  looked 
about.  He  saw  rich  furniture  and  bags  of  money. 
'Eat,'  said  the  dragon,  'if  you  are  hungry;  eat  as 
much  as  you  like' ;  and  he  set  out  bread,  wine,  pasta, 
cheese  and  fish. 


THE  HAIRY  HAND  119 

"When  the  poor  man  had  eaten,  the  dragon  asked, 
'Where  do  you  come  from,  good  man?' 

'The  man  said  he  had  been  gathering  minestra 
to  support  his  family. 

**  *Are  you  single  or  married  ?' 

"  *I  have  four  daughters,'  replied  the  poor  father. 

"  'Four  daughters !'  said  the  dragon.  'I  have  no- 
body; I  live  alone.'  He  asked  the  poor  father  to 
give  him  a  daughter  to  be  his  wife,  promising  that 
she  should  have  plenty  to  eat  and  fine  clothes  to 
wear,  and  he  gave  him  a  fistful  of  gold. 

"The  poor  father  promised  to  bring  his  eldest 
daughter  next  day,  then  he  said,  'I  salute  you;  I 
kiss  your  Excellency's  hand' ;  and  he  went  home. 

"That  night  he  showed  his  four  daughters  the 
money.  'Eat,'  he  said;  'eat,  my  children,  if  you  are 
hungry;  eat  as  much  as  you  like.'  He  told  his 
eldest  daughter  that  a  prince  had  asked  for  her  hand 
in  marriage,  and  next  morning  he  took  her  with 
him  to  the  cave.  The  drau  received  him  kindly 
and  gave  the  poor  father  another  fistful  of  gold. 

"When  the  man  had  gone  home  the  dragon  gave 
the  girl  the  keys  of  all  the  rooms  in  the  cave,  telling 
her  she  was  mistress  of  the  place  to  do  what  she 
pleased,  except  that  one  door  she  must  not  unlock; 
he  pointed  towards  the  great  dark  room  where  he 
kept  the  bodies  of  the  men  he  had  slain.  Then  he 
called,  'Hairy  Hand!' 

"  'What  do  you  want  ?'  replied  a  voice,  and  there 
appeared  a  great  hairy  hand.     It  was  black  and 


120  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

knotted,  and  its  fingers  were  like  the  claws  of * " 

The  Signora  hesitated.  Sarina  gulped  with  sus- 
pense. She  no  longer  heard  the  sullen  booming 
from  the  sea. 

"Like  the  claws  of  the  one  that  dances,"  continued 
the  Signora  finally ;  "the  claws  of  a  bear." 

"  *Do  you  see  the  hairy  hand?'  asked  the  dragon. 
'You  have  to  eat  it.  If  you  eat  it,  you  shall  be 
my  wife;  if  you  don't  eat  it,  woe  to  you!  I  shall 
cut  off  your  head.    Will  you  eat  it?' 

"  *Yes,  I  will  eat  it/  said  the  eldest  daughter. 

"  *I  give  you  three  days,'  said  the  dj-au,  and  he 
went  away.  The  dragon  had  vast  estates;  he  was 
always  busy  traveling  through  his  properties. 

"When  she  was  alone,  the  eldest  daughter  looked 
at  the  hairy  hand.  'How  ugly  it  is!'  she  said  to 
herself ;  'I  am  afraid ;  this  thing  I  cannot  eat.*  She 
hid  it  in  a  big  chest,  and  went  about  the  work  of 
the  house.  On  the  third  day  she  took  flour  and 
made  home-made  macaroni.  She  killed  a  hen  and 
made  a  stew.  When  the  drati  came  home  the  table 
was  set,  and  there  were  roasted  onions  hot  from 
the  bread  oven. 

"'Have  you  eaten  the  Hairy  Hand?'  he  de- 
manded. 

"  'Yes,  I  ate  it,*  she  answered. 

"  'It  seems  to  me  you  did  not  eat  it,'  he  said ;  and 
he  called  'Hairy  Hand !' 

"  'A-u-u !  What  do  you  want  ?'  replied  a  voice. 

"  'Where  are  you  ?'  asked  the  dragon. 


THE  HAIRY  HAND  121 

"  'In  the  big  chest,*  replied  the  Hand. 

"So  the  dragon  knew  that  the  girl  had  not  eaten 
it,  and  he  said,  'Woe  to  you !  I  cut  off  your  head !' 
And  he  cut  it  off  and  threw  her  into  the  great  locked 
room. 

"Now  when  the  poor  father  had  spent  all  the 
money  the  dragon  had  given  him  he  came  again  to 
the  cave,  and  inquired  for  his  daughter.  Said  the 
dragon,  'She  is  having  a  good  time;  she  is  with 
my  sister  who  thinks  her  pretty.' 

"The  dragon  complained  that  he  v/as  again  all 
alone,  and  asked  the  poor  father  to  bring  another 
daughter.  'Eat,'  he  said;  'if  you  are  hungry,  eat 
as  much  as  you  like.'  And  again  he  set  out  food 
and  brought  a  fistful  of  gold. 

"Next  day  the  father  brought  his  second  daughter, 
and  the  dragon  said  to  her,  as  he  had  to  the  first, 
that  she  was  mistress  of  everything  in  the  cave  ex- 
cept the  great  locked  room.  He  showed  her  the 
hairy  hand,  and  told  her  she  should  be  his  wife 
if  she  ate  it.  'If  not,  woe  to  you!'  He  gave  her 
three  days  and  went  away. 

"The  second  daughter  looked  at  the  hairy  hand, 
and  said  to  herself,  'This  thing  I  cannot  eat,'  and 
she  threw  it  into  a  cask  of  wine. 

"When  the  drau  came  home  she  had  done  up  all 
the  work  of  the  house  and  the  pasta  with  tomato 
sauce  was  on  the  table. 

"  'Well  ?'  he  demanded ;  'the  Hand  ?  Have  you 
eaten  it?' 


122  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

"'Yes/  she  said;  'I  ate  It' 

"  'I  don't  believe  you  ate  it/  answered  the  drau, 
and  he  called,  'Hairy  Hand !' 

"  'A-u!  What  do  you  want?' 
'  "  'Where  are  you  ?' 

"  'In  the  wine  cask/ 

"So  the  dragon  saw  that  the  second  daughter  had 
not  eaten  the  hairy  hand,  and  he  cut  off  her  head 
and  put  her  with  her  sister. 

"When  the  poor  father  was  again  out  of  money 
and  came  back  to  the  cave  to  inquire  for  his  two 
daughters,  the  dragon  said  the  second  girl  was  visit- 
ing his  brother.  He  was  alone,  quite  alone,  and  the 
father  must  bring  yet  a  third  daughter.  The  poor  man 
did  as  he  was  told,  and  to  the  third  girl  everything 
happened  much  as  to  her  sisters.  She  hid  the  hairy 
hand  in  the  oven,  and  the  dragon  cut  off  her  head. 
Where  the  father  came  back  to  ask  after  his  three 
children,  the  drau  said  the  third  daughter  was  with 
his  sister-in-law.  The  poor  man  agreed  for  another 
fistful  of  gold  to  bring  his  fourth  daughter,  but 
he  warned  the  dragon  not  to  send  her  to  any  of  his 
relatives,  because  she  was  the  very  last. 

"Now  the  youngest  daughter  was  more  clever 
than  the  others.  She  received  the  order  not  to 
meddle  with  the  door  of  the  locked  room,  and  she 
promised  to  eat  the  hairy  hand.  But  as  soon  as 
the  dragon  had  given  her  three  days'  respite  and 
had  gone  away,  she  unlocked  the  forbidden  door, 
and  found  the  bodies  of  her  three  sisters  and  of 


THE  HAIRY  HAND  123 

all  the  other  murdered  people.  She  was  frightened, 
and  she  thought,  'He  will  kill  me,  too ;  I  am  as  good 
as  dead.' 

"On  the  third  day  when  it  was  time  for  the 
dragon  to  come  home,  instead  of  setting  the  table, 
she  took  a  piece  of  cloth  and  made  a  pocket  and 
sewed  the  hairy  hand  inside," 

The  Signora  folded  a  corner  of  her  apron  to 
show  Sarina  just  how  the  youngest  daughter  had 
made  a  bag  to  hold  the  hairy  hand.  Then  she 
went  on: 

"The  youngest  daughter  tied  the  bag  across  her 
stomach  with  a  rag  and  went  to  bed.  When  the 
dragon  found  her  groaning,  he  asked,  'What  ails 
you?' 

"She  complained:  T  don't  feel  well/ 
'Did  you  eat  the  hairy  hand?' 

"  *Yes ;  I  have  eaten  it.' 
'Hairy  Hand !'  called  the  drau. 
'What  do  you  want?' 
'Where  are  you?' 
'At  the  mistress'  stomach.' 
*Va  be,'  said  the  drau;  'Since  you  have  eaten  it 
you  shall  be  my  wife.' 

"When  the  dragon  saw  that  the  youngest  daughter 
was  ill,  he  went  away,  and  she  got  up  at  once  and 
went  back  to  the  forbidden  room.  This  time  she 
heard  a  sound  as  of  someone  trying  to  breathe. 

"  'U-h,  a-u-h,  uh,  a-u-h !'  It  was  like  this,"  said 
the  Signora,  moaning  as  if  hardly  alive. 


124  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

"In  the  dark  corner  of  the  room  the  youngest 
daughter  found  a  man  in  an  iron  cage.  He  was 
dying  of  hunger.  'Help  me/  he  wailed;  'for  I  am 
the  son  of  the  king.' 

"The  youngest  daughter  killed  a  pigeon  and  made 
broth.  She  put  a  spoon  to  the  bars  and  fed  the 
man,  who  lifted  his  head  and  began  to  move  his 
hands  Then  she  minced  the  flesh  of  the  pigeon 
fine  like  meal,  and  fed  that  to  him.  By  and  by  he 
said,  T  feel  much  better.'  He  told  her  to  send  for 
a  shepherd  with  a  mule. 

"  'But  the  dragon/  she  objected. 

*'  'He  is  gone  away.* 

"When  the  herdsman  came,  he  filed  the  bars  of 
the  cage  with  a  piece  of  iron,  and  the  king's  son 
and  the  youngest  daughter  climbed  into  the  mule's 
saddle-bags,  one  on  each  side.  The  shepherd  stuffed 
the  bags  with  wool,  for  it  was  the  time  of  the 
shearing  of  the  sheep,  and  rode  away  towards  the 
palace  of  the  king. 

"They  had  not  gone  far  when  they  met  the 
dragon,  who  asked,  'What  have  you  got  in  those 
bags  ?' 

"  'Wool,'  said  the  herdsman. 

"The  drau  thrust  his  sword  into  the  saddle-bags, 
and  looked  at  its  point.  There  was  no  blood  on  it, 
nothing  but  a  bit  of  wool.  So  the  drau  believed 
the  shepherd  was  telling  the  truth.  He  struck  the 
mule  with  the  flat  of  his  sword  and  said,  'Get  on 


THE  HAIRY  HAND  125 

with  you?*  and  off  went  the  mule  to  the  king's 
palace. 

"Now  the  king's  son  had  been  gone  two  years, 
and  when  he  reached  home  there  was  great  rejoic- 
ing. He  kissed  his  father's  hand  and  said,  'Your 
majesty,  bless  me.  Father,  grant  me  a  wish;  give 
me  this  girl  for  my  wife.' 

"Now  the  youngest  daughter  had  left  at  the 
window  of  her  room  in  the  cave  a  figure  dressed 
in  her  clothing,  so  that  the  dragon  might  think  her 
at  home  and  attend  to  his  mule  before  coming  in- 
doors. The  hairy  hand  she  had  thrown  into  the 
rubbish  heap.  When  the  dragon  saw  the  doll  at  the 
window  he  called,  'What  ails  you?  Why  don't 
you  speak  to  me  ?  Comedown.'  Then  as  the  figure 
did  not  move,  he  came  upstairs  and  discovered  the 
trick. 

"'Hairy  Hand!'  he  called.     'Where  are  you?' 

"  Tn  the  rubbish.' 

"  'Then  the  mistress  didn't  eat  you?* 

"  'She  didn't  eat  me.' 

"  'Then  why  did  you  say  she  did  eat  you?' 

"  'I  said  I  was  at  the  mistress'  stomach,  and  for- 
got to  say  whether  I  was  inside  or  out.' 

"  'Where  is  the  mistress  ?'    . 

"  'Fled  with  the  son  of  the  king.' 

"Even  in  the  king's  palace  the  youngest  daughter 
feared  the  dragon  and  she  told  the  servant  who  kept 
the  door  to  pretend  to  be  deaf  in  case  he  came.  The 
dragon  did  come,  and  to  all  his  questions  the  old 


126  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

woman  answered,  'You  want  onions  and  beans? 
Down  yon  they  sell  them' ;  and  she  pointed  to  a  shop 
down  the  street." 

But  of  course  the  dragon  got  into  the  palace, 
and  hid  himself  inside  an  enchanted  clock  to  work 
mischief;  and  equally  of  course  he  was  killed  by 
the  king's  son,  and  the  three  older  sisters  were 
brought  to  life,  and  everybody  lived  happy  ever 
afterward. 

Sarina  drew  a  long  breath  of  satisfaction  when 
the  tale  was  finished,  and  begged  for  another. 

"Enough,"  said  the  Signora;  *'it's  time  for  you 
to  go  to  bed."  But  in  the  end  she  was  coaxed  to 
tell  us  about  a  dragon's  wife,  a  "mammadrava." 
A  little  wind  stirred  Sarina's  short  light  hair.  She 
leaned  her  head  against  the  doorjamb,  her  eyes 
fixed  blissfully  on  the  Signora's  face.  She  had  for- 
gotten the  cannon. 

"They  tell  and  they  retell,"  began  the  Signora; 
"that  once  upon  a  time  there  was  a  woman  who 
went  to  the  fountain  to  wash.  There  came  by  a 
'm.ammadrava'  who  said: 

"'What  a  beautiful  smell  of  Christian  meat  I 
If  it  I  see,  I'll  swallow  it  neat!' 

"There  is  nothing  that  tastes  so  good  to  a  dragon 
or  a  she-dragon  as  the  flesh  of  us  Christians. 
"  'Spare  me !'  cried  the  woman. 
"The  'mammadrava'  spared  the  woman  because 


THE  HAIRY  HAND  127 

she  was  with  child,  and  said,  'I'll  eat  what  you  have 
within  you  when  you  have  brought  it  forth.' 

"The  woman  gave  birth  to  a  beautiful  daughter, 
but  she  did  not  give  her  child  to  the  'mammadrava.' 
One  day  the  she-dragon  saw  the  little  girl  passing 
and  called  to  her:  'Pretty  child,  tell  your  motHer 
that  I  want  what  she  promised  me.' 

"The  child  told  her  mother,  T  saw  the  "mamma- 
drava,"  and  she  said,  *T  want  what  your  mother 
promised  me."  ' 

"The  mother  replied,  'Tell  the  "mammadrava," 
"Take  it  where  you  see  it." 

"When  the  little  girl  had  given  the  message  the 
'mammadrava'  said,  'Come  here,  my  child;  I  have 
some  sweets  for  you.* 

"The  little  girl  was  afraid;  for  you  must  know 
that  a  dragon  does  not  talk  as  do  we  other  Chris- 
tians; they  drawl  in  a  terrifying  way  through  the 
nose." 

The  Signora  bent  towards  Sarina,  giving  to  every 
word  a  harsh  nasal  twang. 

"The  'mammadrava'  took  the  child  to  her  house 
and  put  her  into  the  'cannizzu'  to  fatten  until  she 
should  be  big  and  tender  enough  to  eat.  (In  a 
Sicilian  house  a  tall  cylinder  of  woven  cane  is  an 
ordinary  receptacle  for  grain  or  beans.  It  has  a 
small  hole  near  the  floor,  stopped  commonly  with 
rags.)  She  fed  the  little  girl  with  pasta,  fish  and 
sweets,  giving  her  every  day  as  much  as  she  could 


128  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

eat.  After  a  time  she  said  one  morning,  'Stick  out 
a  finger.' 

"The  child  poked  a  finger  through  the  hole. 

"  'You  are  still  too  little  to  eat,'  said  the  'mamma- 
drava,'  and  every  day  she  gave  her  more  pasta  and 
more  fish  and  more  sweets.  As  the  child  grew  she 
became  clever;  and  she  thought,  'If  she  sees  that 
I  am  now  good  and  big,  she  will  eat  me.'  So  she 
killed  a  rat  and  cut  off  its  tail,  and  the  next  time 
the  *mammadrava'  said,  'Put  out  a  finger,'  instead 
of  a  finger  she  poked  out  the  rat's  tail. 

"The  'mammadrava'  was  cross  and  hungry,  for 
it  was  a  long  time  since  she  had  tasted  Christian 
flesh.  She  fed  the  girl  as  much  as  she  could  eat, 
but  always  when  she  asked  to  see  a  finger  the  child 
put  out  the  rat's  tail.  At  last  when  the  girl  was 
eighteen  years  old  she  thought,  'Now  that  I  am 
really  good  and  big  I  shall  soon  be  strong  enough 
to  get  the  better  of  the  old  she-dragon.'  And  one 
day  instead  of  the  rat's  tail  she  put  out  her  flesh- 
and-blood  finger. 

"At  sight  of  it  the  'mammadrava's'  mouth 
watered.  She  took  the  girl  out  of  the  'cannizzu* 
and  looked  at  her.  'How  fine  and  fat  you  are!' 
she  exclaimed,  licking  her  lips.  'We'll  make  a  festa 
to-day  because  you  have  come  out.'  She  built  a 
fire  in  the  oven,  for  she  meant  to  roast  the  girl 
as  a  dinner  for  herself  and  her  husband,  the  dragon. 
When  she  thought  the  oven  must  be  hot  enough 


THE   HAIRY  HAND  129 

she  said,  'Go,  look  into  the  oven  and  see  if  it  is 
ready.' 

"But  the  girl  answered,  'I  don't  know  anything 
about  the  oven;  I've  lived  all  my  life  inside  the 
'cannizzu.'    Go  you;  I'll  set  the  table.' 

"When  the  'mammadrava'  stooped  to  take  away 
the  balata  (the  sheet  of  iron  that  closed  the  mouth 
of  an  oven)  the  girl  took  her  by  the  feet  and  threw 
her  inside  and  put  the  balata  in  position.  Then  she 
set  the  table  and  brought  out  wine. 

"Towards  Ave  Maria  the  dragon  came  home. 
'Where  is  my  wife?'  he  asked. 

"  'She  has  gone  to  market.  She  is  making  a  festa 
to-day  because  I  am  good  and  big  and  have  come 
out  of  the  'cannizzu.'  She  is  roasting  a  fine  sheep. 
Do  you  want  to  see  ?' 

"The  girl  opened  the  oven  and  the  dragon  sniffed 
the  roasting  meat.  'Would  you  like  to  taste  a  little 
bit  now  ?'  she  suggested. 

"The  dragon  was  greedy.  'Yes,'  he  said;  'my 
wife  has  such  an  appetite  she'll  eat  it  all  and  I 
shan't  get  a  bite.    I'll  eat  a  leg.' 

"The  girl  gave  him  as  much  as  he  wanted  of  the 
flesh  of  the  'mammadrava.'  When  he  had  drunk 
so  much  wine  that  he  was  sleepy,  she  took  all  the 
goods  that  God  had  given  the  house,  and  ran  away 
home.     . 

"Now  you  must  surely  go  to  bed,"  said  the 
Signora  to  Sarina. 

The  Corso  was  deserted.    The  men  who  through- 


130  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

out  the  evening  had  been  standing  in  the  Piazza 
Sant'  Agostino,  looking  out  over  the  sea,  by  twos 
and  threes  had  gone  home.  The  houses  were  dark 
and  quiet. 

Sarina  looked  across  the  narrow  way  to  a  shop 
where  a  light  still  burned.  "My  sister,"  she  said, 
"has  not  finished  ironing.  Just  another  little  short 
one.     Tell  us  about  the  thirteen  robbers." 

"But  you  know  it,"  replied  the  Signora. 

"I  don't,"  I  suggested. 

"Once  upon  a  time,"  recommenced  the  Signora 
patiently,  "there  was  a  mother  who  had  two  beauti- 
ful daughters.  One  day  she  was  obliged  to  go  a 
long  way  from  home  to  bleach  her  flax.  She  aske3 
an  old  woman  to  sleep  in  the  house  with  her  daugh- 
ters that  night,  and  to  let  no  one  in  for  fear  of 
robbers.  'Lock  the  door  as  soon  as  it  is  dark,' 
she  said,  'and  hang  the  key  on  the  nail.' 

"The  old  woman  agreed,  but  as  soon  as  the 
mother  had  gone,  she  sought  out  the  chief  of  a 
robber  band;  and  told  him  that  if  he  would  knock 
at  the  door  at  midnight,  he  might  get  possession  of 
everything  in  the  house.  The  robber  chief  gave 
the  old  woman  a  purse  of  silver,  and  at  midnight 
precisely  he  rapped  at  the  door.  The  old  woman 
snored  as  if  she  were  fast  asleep. 

"  'Open,  I  am  your  mother,'  called  the  master 
thief. 

"The  older  daughter  would  have  opened,  but  the 
younger  was  more  clever.    She  said,  'Mother  would 


THE  HAIRY  HAND  131 

never  come  home  at  this  hour.'  So  the  two  beautiful 
girls  climbed  up  into  the  hay-loft  and  pulled  up  the 
ladder. 

"There  were  thirteen  of  the  robbers,  and  they 
broke  down  the  door.  But  the  younger  daughter 
threw  blocks  of  rock  salt  on  their  heads  until  she 
had  killed  twelve.  Only  the  robber  chief  remained 
alive,  and  to  avoid  discovery  he  carried  away  one 
at  a  time  the  bodies  of  all  his  men. 

"When  the  mother  came  home  next  day  the  old 
woman  pretended  to  have  slept  soundly  all  night 
and  to  have  heard  nothing.  The  robber  chief  was 
determined  to  avenge  himself,  so  he  asked  the 
mother  to  give  him  her  younger  daughter  in  mar- 
riage. The  clever  girl  knew  that  it  was  the  head 
robber  who  sought  her,  and  guessed  that  he  meant 
to  kill  her ;  but  she  said  yes,  and  they  were  married. 
On  the  day  of  the  wedding  she  made  a  figure  as 
large  as  herself,  dressed  it  in  her  own  clothes  and 
put  it  into  the  bed.    Then  she  hid  underneath. 

"When  the  head  robber  came  into  the  room  and 
saw  the  dummy,  he  thrust  his  dagger  through  and 
through  it,  shouting,  'Thus  do  I  take  vengeance  for 
the  death  of  my  brave  lads!  Thus  do  I  drink  the 
blood  of  the  murderess!'  And  he  drank  of  the 
liquid  that  ran  from  the  pupa.  No  sooner  had  he 
done  so  than  he  started  to  his  feet,  crying,  'How 
sweet  is  my  wife's  blood !  I  repent  me  that  I  have 
killed  her!    I  will  kill  myself !' 

"He  began  to  sob  and  groan,  and  he  would  have 


IS2  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

thrust  the  knife  into  his  own  heart;  but  the  younger 
daughter  jumped  from  her  hiding  place  and  said: 

'  "  'A  sugar  doll  has  bled  at  your  knife 
And  you  and  I  are  husband  and  wife.' " 

"Is  that  the  end  ?"  asked  Sarina.  "Did  they  make 
peace?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  Signora ;  "they  made  peace.  And 
when  my  grandmother  told  me  that  story  she  used 
to  say, 

8  "  'Now  husband  and  wife  are  rich  and  contended, 
But  we  poor  folks  are  sadly  stinted.' " 

Sarina's  sister  had  finished  ironing  and  came  to 
fetch  her.  It  had  been  a  long  hot  day  for  the 
laundress,  and  while  she  rested  with  us  in  the  even- 
ing air,  she,  too,  begged  for  a  story.  The  Signora 
tried  to  tell  us  about  The  Beauty  of  the  Seven 
Veils;  but  she  couldn't  remember  it,  and  gave  us 
instead.  The  Enchanted  Mirror.* 

"Once  upon  a  time  a  wicked  woman  had  a  beauti- 
f  ull  step-daughter  whom  she  beat  and  kept  in  rags. 
One  day  she  asked  an  enchanted  mirror  whether 
the  girl  was  fortunate  or  unfortunate. 

"Fortunate,"  answered  the  enchanted  mirror. 

^  "  'La  pupa  e  f  atta  di  zucchero  e  mieli, 
E  nui  siamu  maritu  e  mugghieri.' " 

8  "  'Ora  sono  ricchi  c  cuntenti, 

Ma  nuiautri  restiamu  senza  nenti.' " 


THE   HAIRY  HAND  133 

"The  step-mother  flew  into  a  rage,  and  commis- 
sioned a  bad  old  woman  to  take  the  child  a  long 
way  from  home  and  leave  her  in  a  place  from 
which  she  could  not  find  her  way  back ;  but  the  little 
girl  guessed  what  was  going  to  happen,  and  filled 
her  pockets  with  flour;  then  as  they  walked  she 
dropped  a  little  here  and  there.  After  they  had 
gone  a  long  distance  they  sat  down  in  a  thicket 
and  ate  two  pieces  of  bread.  The  child  was  so 
tired  that  she  fell  asleep,  and  the  old  woman  stole 
away. 

"When  the  wicked  step-mother  asked  the  mirror 
whether  or  not  the  girl  would  come  back,  the  mirror 
said  yes ;  and  indeed  after  a  couple  of  days  the  child 
came  home.  The  step-mother  treated  her  worse 
than  ever,  and  after  a  time  inquired  again  of  the 
mirror  whether  the  girl  was  lucky  or  unlucky.  The 
mirror  repeated  that  the  girl  was  lucky,  so  the  step- 
mother sent  her  away  again  with  the  old  woman, 
feeling  her  all  over  before  they  started  to  make  sure 
there  was  no  flour  this  time  in  her  bag.  The  old 
v/oman  walked  and  walked,  and  when  at  last  they 
sat  down  in  a  wood  the  girl  was  so  tired  that  she 
fell  asleep  before  she  had  tasted  food. 

"When  she  awoke  alone,  the  beautiful  girl  did 
not  know  which  way  to  turn.  Not  far  away  she 
saw  a  cave.  A  latchstring  was  hanging  out,  so  she 
opened  the  door.  Inside  she  found  bread  and  cheese 
and  eggs  and  oil  and  wine,  and  she  saw  men's  cloth- 
ing hanging  from  pegs,  but  nothing  belonging  to 


134  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

a  woman.  She  knew  the  men  who  lived  in  the  cave 
must  come  home  to  eat,  so  she  gathered  minestra 
and  cooked  it,  and  she  killed  a  hen  and  stewed  it 
with  onions  and  olives  and  basil.  Then  she  set  the 
table  and  hid  in  a  corner. 

"When  the  twelve  brigands  who  lived  in  the  cave 
came  home  and  saw  the  table  they  thought  at  first 
some  other  brigand  must  have  been  there  but  the 
head  brigand  said,  'These  are  not  men's  doings, 
they  are  the  doings  of  a  woman.' 

"  'If  the  woman  were  here,'  said  the  other 
brigands,  'she  should  be  our  sister.' 

*'When  the  girl  heard  this,  she  came  out  from 
her  corner.  The  head  brigand  made  her  sit  by  him 
and  fed  her  from  his  own  plate.  The  men  told 
her  she  should  truly  be  their  sister  to  cook  the  food 
and  make  the  beds  and  attend  to  all  the  work  of 
the  cave.  They  gave  her  fine  clothes  and  became 
very  fond  of  her. 

"But  after  a  time  the  wicked  step-mother  asked 
the  enchanted  mirror  whether  the  girl  was  alive  or 
dead,  and  the  mirror  answered  that  she  was  alive 
and  had  twelve  brothers.  Then  the  step-mother 
sent  for  a  witch  who  gave  her  an  enchanted  ring 
that  had  power  to  throw  into  a  sleep  like  death  any 
person  who  put  it  on.  This  ring  the  step-mother 
entrusted  to  the  old  woman,  who  went  back  to  the 
wood  and  offered  it  to  the  girl,  who  put  it  on  her 
finger  and  fell  at  once  asleep. 


THE   HAIRY  HAND  135 

"When  the  brigands  came  home,  they  mourned 
their  beautiful  sister  as  dead.  They  put  her  into 
a  box  of  carved  wood,  with  a  purse  by  her  side, 
and  carried  the  box  to  the  top  of  a  high  mountain. 
One  day  a  prince  who  was  hunting  found  the  box. 
When  he  had  opened  it,  he  called  his  men  to  carry 
it  to  his  palace,  for  he  was  wiser  than  the  brigands 
and  knew  that  the  beautiful  girl  was  sleeping.  In 
the  palace  the  prince's  servant  noticed  the  ring  and 
watched  her  chance  to  slip  it  off  the  girl's  finger, 
saying  to  herself,  'What  a  pretty  ring!  I'll  take 
it  myself !' 

"As  soon  as  the  ring  was  off  her  hand  the  girl 
awoke  and  asked  for  her  brothers.  She  told  the 
prince  about  her  step-mother  and  the  old  woman, 
but  as  to  her  brothers  she  refused  to  say  anything 
except  that  they  lived  in  a  cave.  The  prince  guessed 
they  must  be  brigands  and  gave  his  word  to  pardon 
them,  'for,'  he  said,  'you  are  to  be  my  spouse.'  So 
they  were  married  and  the  prince  gave  the  brigands 
much  land. 

"Then  again  the  wicked  step-mother  asked  the 
mirror  whether  the  beautiful  girl  was  alive  or  dead. 
'She  is  now  a  princess,'  said  the  mirror ;  'she  is  the 
wife  of  the  king's  son ;  she  lives  in  a  splendid  palace 
and  wears  fine  clothes.' 

"  'Then  how  can  I  avenge  myself?*  screamed  the 
step-mother. 

"The  mirror  did  not  answer.  It  had  spoken  in 
the  past,  because  the  beautiful  girl  was  fortunate. 


136  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

her  happy  fate  was  certain  to  be  fulfilled.  But  now 
destiny  was  accomplished.  She  was  a  princess  and 
happy.    What  more  was  there  to  say? 

"The  step-mother  broke  the  mirror  in  her  rage; 
it  never  spoke  again." 


CHAPTER  VI 
Jesus  as  Destroyer 

Another  time,  when  the  Lord  Jesus  was  coming  home  in 
the  evening  with  Joseph,  he  met  a  boy  who  ran  so  hard 
against  him  that  he  threw  him  down.  To  whom  the  Lord 
Jesus  said,  "As  thou  hast  thrown  me  down,  so  shalt  thou 
fall,  nor  ever  rise."  And  that  moment  the  boy  fell  down 
and  died.  .  .  . 

Then  said  Joseph  to  St.  Mary,  "Henceforth  we  will  not 
allow  him  to  go  out  of  the  house ;  for  everyone  who  dis- 
pleases him  is  killed." — Apocryphal  books  of  the  New  Testa- 
ment; First  Gospel  of  the  Infancy,  Chaps.  XIX  and  XX. 

In  spite  of  the  fervor  of  the  Bambino  cult,  the 
most  important  person  of  the  Sicihan  Holy  Family 
is  the  Madonna,  because  she  is  not  only  powerful, 
but  in  her  relations  with  man  she  is  almost  uniformly 
benign.  Caprices  of  ill-temper  are  indeed  attributed 
to  her,  as  in  case  of  the  old  charm  against  colic: 

*Vine  branches   out,   vine   branches   in, 
Straw  and  grain. 
Away  in  no  time  goes  this  pain. 
For  Jesus'  sake 
No  more  of  this  ache. 

^  Fora  sciarmenti,  intra  sciarmenti, 
Pagghia  e  f  rumenti ; 
Si  nni  va  stu  duluri  tempu  nenti. 
Pi  lu  nomu  di  Gesu 
Mi  ci  passa  e  nun  mi  nni  avi  nenti  chiu. 

137 


138  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

Once  upon  a  time,  the  tale  goes,  the  Madonna 
was  cold  and  begged  of  a  neighbor  cuttings  pruned 
from  the  vines.  The  woman  refused,  saying  she 
had  none ;  but  the  Madonna  knew  that  she  had  and 
cursed  her  saying,  "May  you  twist  in  pain  like  the 
prunings  that  are  twisting  under  your  oven." 
Whereupon  the  woman  writhed  in  torment  until  the 
Madonna  thought  she  had  been  punished  enough  and 
charmed  away  the  pain  with  the  prayer  now  in 
use. 

But  in  spite  of  such  trivial  outbursts,  the  Madonna 
appears  in  the  folk  tales  as  the  world's  great  kindly 
Mother.  San  Giuseppe,  too,  is  a  wholly  benevolent 
patriarch;  but  there  are  aspects  of  the  Lord  Jesus 
which  remind  one  of  the  anecdotes  of  a  vindictive 
Child  Christ  related  in  the  Apocryphal  Gospels  of 
the  Infancy. 

As  in  more  than  one  ancient  trinity  there  figure 
the  creator,  the  preserver  and  the  destroyer-regen- 
erator, so  in  the  Sicilian  trinity  of  father,  mother 
and  child  one  is  tempted  to  place  the  child  as  the 
destructive  force,  thwarted  and  controlled  by  the 
mother.  In  old  stories  still  current,  as  in  songs 
newly  manufactured,  the  Lord  Jesus  is  shown  as 
wrathful  against  men  as  was  the  far-darting  Apollo 
towards  the  people  who  neglected  his  altars. 

On  one  of  my  first  visits  to  Messina  after  the 
earthquake  of  1908, 1  heard  the  wail  of  a  cantastorie 
among  the  ruins,  and  bought  a  copy  of  the  penny 
ballad  the  crippled,  dim-sighted  old  man  was  singing 


JESUS  AS   DESTROYER  139 

to  curiosity-seekers  and  to  those  who  sought  their 
dead  in  that  great  sepulchre.  The  song  of  forty- 
eight  stanzas  explained  the  catastrophe  as  an  effort 
of  Jesus  to  destroy  the  world  •  an  attempt  limited 
in  its  success  by  Mary.    Said  lu  Signuri: 

.  .  .  "For  me  the  world  is  dead; 
Destroyed  would  I  see  the  blue  sky." 
So  his  mantle  black  of  wrath  he  took 
To  break  man's  back  that  he  die. 
He  called  the  earthquake  quickly; 
To  his  command  it  ran. 
"Shake  thou  the  earth  this  minute! 
Destroy  perfidious  man !" 

The  earthquake  obeyed  orders,  and  men  ran  from 
their  houses  calling  on  the  Madonna.  She  was 
asleep,  but  the  groans  of  the  dying  woke  her  and 
at  once  she  bade  earth  and  sea  be  still.  They  refused 
obedience,  telling  her  that  Christ  had  expressly  com- 
manded them  to  sink  the  entire  earth: 

"This  word  from  whom  did  you  get  it 

To  destroy  my  people  devout?" 

The  sea  it  answered  her  promptly. 

"The  command  't  is  of  Christ,  do  not  doubt." 

Then  the  Madonna  went  to  her  son  and  besought 
him  by  her  tears, 

Behold  how  many  thousands  dead! 
The  innocent  for  help  who  cry! 
Forget  your  wrath,  all-powerful  son ; 
Think  of  your  bitter  cross  so  high. 


140  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

Jesus  refused  to  listen,  saying  that  man  had  been 
warned  with  floods  and  fire,  but  refused  to  respect 
either  sacraments  or  gospel,  and  the  time  had  come 
to  make  an  end  of  him: 

See  you  not  man,  the  ill-liver? 
His  sins  he  does  not  repent; 
Even  the  lads  of  tender  years 
New  blasphemies  invent. 

Yet  in  the  end  the  Madonna  had  her  will.  Jesus 
put  off  his  black  cloak,  though  grudgingly,  and  bade 
her  do  as  she  chose.  At  once  she  renewed  her 
command  to  earth  and  sea: 

"O   earthquake,    return   to   thy   corner," 
Then  said  the  great  spotless  Mother; 
"Calm  the  fears  of  these  my  devoted, 
And  make  no  more  pitiless  slaughter. 
And  thou,  sea  wave,  get  back  also; 
From  my  son  the  grace  I  have  got." 
So,  but  for  the  Virgin  Maria, 
This  earth  as  'tis  now  were  not. 

But  for  Mary,  the  fate  of  Messina  would  have 
been  the  fate  of  the  entire  world. 

Again  after  the  earthquake  at  Linera  in  the  spring 
of  1914  the  "story-singer"  sang  of  the  wrath  of 
Christ  and  the  intervention  of  the  Madonna  to 
save  man.  In  a  ballad  called  "The  Powerful  Earth- 
quakes in  Sicily"  Jesus  Christ  tells  his  mother  that 
he  can  no  longer  endure  the  insults  heaped  on  him, 
and  that  if  he  has  called  in  the  earthquake,  it  is 


JESUS  AS  DESTROYER  141 

no  affair  of  hers.  This  time  San  Giuseppe  came 
to  his  wife's  help,  demanding  payment,  if  the  earth 
was  to  go  down  in  wreck,  of  the  Madonna's  dowry: 

First  give  to  me  the  sun  and  moon, 
And  stars  and  earth,  then  too  the  sea, 
Paradise,  angels,  archangels  and  saints; 
These  must  thou  give  me  instantly. 
And  next  consign  to  me  the  crown 
Of  my  wife  constant  and  divine; 
For  these  things  are  her  dowry ;  of  them 
She's  mistress;  hers  they  are  and  mine. 

The  price  was  found  so  great  that  man  received 
his  pardon. 

This  doggerel,  lacking  simplicity  and  sincerity 
as  completely  as  it  lacks  the  dialectic  interest  of  the 
older  ballads,  is  of  value  only  as  showing  the  me- 
chanical continuance  of  a  tradition  through  its  own 
impetus. 

It  was  a  drowsy  afternoon  when  I  first  heard 
this  song  of  San  Giuseppe  and  the  Madonna,  one 
of  those  August  afternoons  when  even  the  sea  is 
sunwhite,  except  where  waving  lines  mark  the  track 
of  a  boat  long  past  or  the  motion  of  currents.  At 
Gna  Vanna's  doorstone  in  the  Via  Bagnoli  Croce 
a  group  of  women  were  shucking  almonds.  Zu 
Vincenzu  Nanu,  the  dwarf,  has  thirty-four  trees 
on  his  bit  of  land  under  the  castle,  and  their  fruit 
lay  in  sacks  just  inside  the  door. 

Peeling  the  outside  shell  off  rich  brown  mennuli 
is  commonly  a  merry  task,  but  this  day  we  were 


142  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

very  quiet.  The  drought  was  extreme.  From  where 
we  sat  we  could  look  up  at  the  castle  crag  above 
the  town,  gray  and  yellow,  bleached  and  bare,  hot  in 
the  sun.  Clinging  to  fissures,  dwarfed  fichi  d'India 
drooped  their  sapless  leaves  to  the  rock.  On  the 
steep  lower  slopes  against  the  gray-white  terraces 
stood  out  withering  almond  trees,  Zu  Vincenzu's 
among  them,  dropping  discouraged  yellow  leaves. 

Instead  of  splitting  away  in  ripening,  the  shells 
of  our  nuts  had  dried  to  the  stone,  making  it  neces- 
sary to  use  teeth  and  bits  of  rock  as  well  as  fingers 
in  shucking  them.  Mine  was  the  only  knife  in  the 
party.  The  nuts,  too,  were  so  small  and  poor  that 
low  prices  stood  out  in  prospect. 

Then,  too,  that  morning  thirty  young  men  had 
left  Taormina  to  join  the  colors,  and  who  knew 
whether  or  not  next  morning  another  manifesto 
would  be  posted,  calling  other  classes,  and  who  knew 
whether  or  not  Italy  was  going  into  the  great  war? 
Probably  yes ;  for  both  the  Pope  and  the  black  pope 
were  dead;  God  had  called  home  his  ambassadors. 

"Woe,  woe  to  us  others,"  complained  Za  Sara, 
puckering  tighter  her  brown  puckered  face.  "Last 
year  I  earned  a  lira  and  a  half  a  day  for  a  month, 
shucking  almonds;  but  this  year  there  are  no  nuts. 
Without  taking  in  soldi  how  shall  we  live?" 

A  breath  of  wind  stirred  her  rough  hair.  Za 
Sara  has  only  two  teeth,  though  she  is  not  an  old 
woman;  a  yellow  fang  on  one  side  of  the  lower 
jaw  and  a  second  on  the  other  side  of  the  upper. 


JESUS  AS  DESTROYER  143 

I  do  not  know  how  she  keeps  up  with  the  other 
women  biting  off  the  outer  shells  of  almonds. 

"Woe,  woe  to  us,"  she  went,  her  eyes,  drawn 
up  small  by  exposure  to  the  sun,  lost  behind  puckers 
of  anxiety.  "God  sends  us  thirst  and  war!  It  is 
the  punishment  of  our  sins." 

"Does  God  send  thirst  and  war?"  I  ventured. 

"Thirst,  yes,"  answered  old  Za  Delfi  Sittima — 
Aunt  Delphia,  the  seven-months-child;  "for  the 
Lord  rains  when  he  will;  but  war  is  an  affair  of 
kings." 

It  was  after  this  pronouncement  of  the  separation 
of  church  and  state  that  we  heard  the  quavering 
lament  of  the  cantastorie.  A  blind  old  man  led 
by  a  boy  was  coming  down  the  street  singing  of 
the  destruction  of  Linera: 

To  an  earthquake  mighty  and  strong 
Christ  gave  the  order,  you  ken ; 
But  Mary  the  mother  asked  him, 
"What  do'st  thou,  O  Lamb,  to  men?" 

When  the  singer  had  tottered  away  over  the  cob- 
ble stones  to  the  next  group  of  houses,  I  inquired, 
"Why  is  the  Madonna  kinder  to  us  than  the  Lord 
Jesus?" 

"Because  she  is  the  Mother,"  said  Gna  Vanna. 

Bastianu,  the  youngest  of  her  three  grandchildren, 
had  been  fretting  for  a  tomato.  Pulling  a  round, 
brown  loaf  of  bread  out  of  the  table  drawer,  he 
brought  it  to  Gna  Vanna,  who  cut  him  a  piece, 


144  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

muttering  as  she  struggled  with  the  dull  knife, 
"Hard  as  a  mazzacani,"  a  stone  big  enough  to  kill 
a  dog.  Bastianu  got  his  white  little  teeth  into  it 
without  trouble,  and  flung  himself  on  the  sacks 
of  nuts  whimpering  for  the  "pumiduru,"  the  golden 
apple,  as  the  tomato  is  called. 

Bastianu  was  ill.  A  tomato  would  hurt  him.  All 
night  long  he  had  fever.  An  ailing  child  is  a  great 
expense.  Five  pennies  of  milk  she  bought  for  Bas- 
tianu every  day,  three  in  the  morning  and  two  at 
night;  while  Vincenzinu,  his  five-year-old  brother, 
contented  himself  with  bread  and  wine. 

Unmoved  by  this  reasoning,  Bastianu  whined  the 
louder.  Gna  Vanna's  face  sharpened;  her  bright 
eyes  became  steely.  "Get  out !"  she  screamed.  "Get 
out  of  here!  You  dirty  dog!  You  devil's  face!** 

The  child  began  shrieking.  Seizing  Zu  Vin- 
cenzu's  stick,  she  took  Bastianu  by  the  slack  of  his 
dust-colored,  faded  clothes  and  cast  him  at  our 
feet  in  the  narrow,  cobble-paved  way.  Gasping,  he 
came  back  to  her  side,  his  dark  eyes  shining  too 
big  by  half  in  his  white  little  face. 

"Why  do  you  make  the  child  cry!"  screeched 
Gna  Vanna,  throwing  back  his  stick  to  Zu  Vin- 
cenzu,  who  sat  as  usual  bent  in  his  chair,  his  head 
tied  up  in  a  red  kerchief,  oblivious  to  everything 
that  went  forward.  Kissing  Bastianu,  she  gave  him 
a  tomato  in  each  hand. 

"The  Madonna,"  she  continued,  turning  to  me, 
"is  the  Mother;  she  keeps  us  beneath  her  mantle. 


JESUS  AS  DESTROYER  145 

You  know,  Signurinedda,  how  a  mother  is.  If  a 
child  is  bad,  she  gives  him  some  good  slaps,  but 
afterwards  she  kisses  and  caresses  him.  The 
Madonna  is  like  that  with  us.  But  the  Lord  Jesus, 
you  know,  Signurinedda,  he  is  her  son,  and  children 
have  no  judgment." 

Zu  Vincenzu,  rousing  himself,  retreated  to  a  seat 
behind  the  bed,  his  skin  sandals  making  a  scuffing 
sound  as  he  crossed  the  cement  floor.  Gna  Vanna 
made  spiteful  horns  with  her  fingers  behind  his 
back;  and  then,  shucking  nuts  faster  than  the  best 
of  us,  she  began  telling  us  between  bites  a  tale  of 
how  the  Madonna  thwarted  Jesus. 

The  Ashes  of  the  Sheep 

"Once  upon  a  time  a  boy  was  minding  sheep 
Vv^hen  there  appeared  a  man  who  said,  'You  must 
give  me  the  best  lamb  you  have.' 

**  'I  can't  give  it  to  you,'  said  the  boy  shepherd, 
'because  they  are  not  mine ;  they  are  my  master's.* 

"  'Then  go  to  your  master  and  tell  him  there  is 
a  gentleman  who  wants  the  best  sheep  there  is.' 

"  'Vossia,  I  can't  go/  said  the  boy,  'because  I  have 
to  mind  my  sheep.' 

"  'I'll  watch  them,'  said  the  man. 

"So  the  boy  went,  and  the  padrone,  who  thought 
the  man  might  take  all  his  lambs  if  he  refused  one, 
told  the  shepherd  to  bid  him  take  whichever  one 
he  liked. 


146  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

"The  man  chose  the  best  of  the  lambs  and  gave 
it  to  the  boy  saying,  'Hold  it.'  The  boy  took  the 
lamb  by  its  four  feet  and  held  it.  Then  the  man 
said,  'Get  me  some  wood.' 

"The  boy  picked  up  what  wood  he  could  find  and 
some  light  stuff  for  kindlings.  Then  the  man  said, 
'Give  me  a  match.' 

"  'Vossia,  I  haven't  any,'  said  the  boy ;  'I  don't 
carry  matches.' 

"  'But  you  see  that  you  have  some ;  you  do  carry 
matches,'  replied  the  galantomo,  nodding  towards 
the  boy's  pockets.  The  boy  felt  in  his  sacchetti  and 
found  matches.  Then  the  man  made  a  great  fire 
and  said,  pointing  to  the  Iamb,  'Throw  it  in!' 

"The  boy  threw  the  lamb  into  the  fire  alive,  just 
as  it  was,  with  all  its  wool."  Gna  Vanna  took  off 
her  apron  and  threw  it  by  its  four  corners  on  to 
the  nut  sacks,  as  if  it  had  been  the  lamb.  "Alive 
with  its  wool,"  she  repeated,  her  hooped  earrings 
bobbing,  her  shining  faded  eyes  expressing  the 
boy's  fright  and  horror. 

"When  the  lamb  was  entirely  burned,  the  man 
took  a  stick  and  scattered  the  ashes.  As  soon  as 
these  were  cold  he  told  the  boy  to  sweep  them  with 
a  brush  of  leaves.  Then  he  said,  'Give  me  a  hand- 
kerchief.' 

"  'Vossia,'  said  the  boy,  *I  haven't  any ;  I  don't 
carry  a  handkerchief,* 

**  'You  see  that  you  have  one/  answered  the  man. 


JESUS  AS   DESTROYER  147 

nodding  again  towards  the  boy's  sacchetti.  The 
boy  felt  in  his  pockets  and  found  a  handkerchief." 

Gna  Vanna  pulled  up  her  faded  cotton  skirt  and 
felt  in  the  bag  pocket  that  hung  by  its  cords  from 
her  waist,  drawing  out  a  huge  kerchief,  at  which 
she  gazed  with  all  the  amazement  of  the  shepherd 
boy. 

"  'You  see  that  you  do  carry  a  handkerchief,' 
said  the  man.  He  made  the  boy  hold  it  by  the 
four  corners  while  he  poured  into  it  all  the  ashes." 

Gna  Vanna's  kerchief  drooped  in  the  middle 
with  the  weight  of  imaginary  ashes,  and  she  held 
it  carefully  with  both  hands,  finally  knotting  to- 
gether the  corners. 

"The  gentleman  made  the  boy  tie  up  the  bundle, 
and  he  said,  'Now  you  must  go  to  the  sea  and  throw 
it  in.' 

"  'Excellency,  I  can't  go,'  said  the  boy.  'The 
sea  is  a  long  way  off,  your  Excellency.  I  must 
mind  my  sheep.' 

"  'You  must  go  to  the  sea  and  throw  in  the 
ashes,'  repeated  the  man.     'I'll  mind  the  sheep.* 

"So  the  boy  went.  Half  way  on  his  journey  he 
met  a  woman  who  said  to  him,  'Where  are  you 
going?' 

"  'I  am  going  to  the  sea,'  he  answered,  'to  throw 
in  this  handkerchief  with  the  ashes.* 

"'Where  did  you  get  it?' 

**  'A  man  gave  it  to  me.' 

"  'Give  it  to  me.' 


148  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

"When  the  woman  had  looked  at  the  hand- 
kerchief with  the  ashes,  she  said,  'My  son!  I 
thought  so!    At  it  again!' 

"The  woman  was  the  Madonna,  though  the  boy 
did  not  know  it;  and  the  gentleman  was  really  the 
Lord  Jesus.  Because  of  the  sins  of  man  he  meant 
to  destroy  the  world.  If  the  boy  had  reached  the 
sea,  and  had  thrown  in  the  ashes,  the  world  would 
have  gone  in  ruins  like  Messina.  But  the  Madonna 
took  the  handkerchief  and  put  it  under  her  arm, 
hidden  by  her  shawl. 

"  'Because  of  his  sins,'  she  said,  *I  take  away 
from  man  three  things,  bread,  wine  and  oil ;  but  let 
the  world  stand  as  it  is.' 

"Then  she  said  to  the  boy,  'Greetings/  and  she 
went  away  to  her  own  house. 

"The  boy  said,  'Vossia,  give  me  your  blessing,' 
and  he  returned  to  his  sheep. 

"When  the  boy  reached  the  place  where  the  fire 
had  been,  the  gentleman  asked  him,  'Did  you  throw 
the  handkerchief  into  the  sea?' 

"The  boy  said  a  woman  had  taken  it  away  from 
him.  The  Lord  Jesus  knew  that  it  was  the  Ma- 
donna, and  he  said,  'I  salute  thee ;  nothing  but  that ; 
I  salute  thee.'  The  boy  answered,  'Your  blessing. 
Excellency' ;  and  watched  him  as  he  took  a  step  or 
two  away.  All  at  once  the  man  disappeared.  The 
boy  went  home  and  lay  down  on  his  bed.  He  died 
of  fright. 

"Children  have  no  judgment,"  concluded  Gna 


JESUS  AS  DESTROYER  149 

Vanna.  "The  Lord  Jesus  wishes  to  unmake  the 
world,  but  the  Madonna  does  not  permit,  because 
she  is  the  Mother.  It  is  true  that  we  are  sinners, 
and  that  is  why  we  have  no  food.  The  Madonna 
has  taken  away  bread,  oil  and  wine.  It  does  not 
rain,  and  there  are  no  crops ;  but  the  Madonna  does 
not  allow  her  son  to  make  an  end  of  us.    • 

"Do  I  say  well?"  she  demanded,  tapping  her 
forehead  with  a  long  forefinger,  and  glancing  from 
one  to  another,  confident  of  approval. 

"Are  these  things  excellent?  I  have  no  books, 
but  I  have  all  these  things  in  my  head.  I  know 
these  things,  and  other  people  do  not  know  them. 
The  Madonna  keeps  us  tmder  her  mantle.  You 
agree  with  me?" 

By  this  time  Bastianu  had  finished  eating,  and 
was  crawling  under  the  table  to  get  at  a  quartara 
of  water.  He  mishandled  the  thick  earthem  jar, 
which  rolled  on  its  side,  fortunately  without  break- 
ing. "I'll  knock  you!"  shrieked  Gna  Vanna  with 
a  blow  of  her  clenched  fist  under  her  chin. 

Scrambling  out  of  her  way  and  out  of  the  way 
of  the  running  water,  Bastianu  struck  the  box  under 
the  bed  in  which  sat  a  hen  open-beaked  in  the  heat. 
With  a  squawk  the  fowl  flapped  out  of  the  box  and 
out  of  the  room.  Gna  Vanna  rose  threateningly, 
but  Bastianu  had  escaped  with  the  hen. 

Cumari  Ciccia,  the  most  good-natured  woman 
on  the  street,  had  worked  at  the  nuts  until  glances 
from  Gna  Vanna's  eyes  hinting  that  she  ate  too 


ISO  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

freely  while  shelling  sent  her  to  her  own  steps  just 
opposite.  From  that  point  she  could  still  talk  with 
us,  and  now  she  came  back  with  a  pan  of  greens  to 
pick  over  for  minestra,  saying,  "I  can  tell  Vossia 
another  story." 

The  Old  Man  and  the  Bells 

"Once  upon  a  time  an  old  man  was  digging  in  a 
vineyard  when  there  appeared  to  him  a  young  man 
who  said,  'You  must  go  to  the  church  of  the  Ma- 
donna di  la  Catina  to  ring  the  bell.' 

"The  old  man  answered,  'It  is  far.  I  have  not 
strength  for  the  climb.' 

"Then  the  young  man,  who  was  the  Lord  Jesus, 
replied,  'You  have  the  strength  and  you  have  to  go.' 

"  'But,'  said  the  old  man,  'the  church  is  shut* 

"  'The  church  is  open,*  said  the  young  man. 

"The  old  man  carried  his  zappa  to  the  straw  hut 
where  he  had  left  his  coat.  Then  he  climbed  the 
mountain  side  to  the  church  where  no  one  ever  goes 
except  in  September  to  the  great  festa.  Vossia  has 
been  to  the  festa?  She  knows  the  church,  high  up 
above  Mongiuffi?  The  church  was  open.  The  old 
man  went  in,  and  began  to  climb  the  stairs  of  the 
campanile,  when  there  appeared  a  woman  who  said, 
'Good  old  man,  where  are  you  going?' 

"  'To  ring  the  bell.  A  young  man  told  me  I  must 
come  to  the  church  to  ring  the  bell.  He  said  the 
church  would  be  open,  and  it  is  open.' 


JESUS  AS  DESTROYER  151 

"The  woman  was  the  Madonna.  She  said  to  the 
old  man,  'What  was  the  young  man  like?' 

"The  old  man  told  her,  and  she  said,  'It  was  my 
son,  who  wants  to  sink  the  world.  Go  away !  Don't 
ring  the  bell.' 

"The  old  man  went  down  the  belfry  steps  and  back 
to  the  vineyard.  He  had  just  picked  up  his  zappa 
and  was  going  to  work  again  when  the  young  man 
appeared  a  second  time,  and  said,  'Did  you  ring  the 
bell?    I  did  not  hear  it' 

"  'I  met  a  woman  who  told  me  not  to  ring.' 

"Then  the  Lord  Jesus  said,  'My  mother!  Must 
you  break  my  heart  again,  troubling  my  plans  ?'  At 
once  he  disappeared. 

"If  the  old  man  had  rung  the  bell,  the  world 
would  have  gone  down  in  ruins." 

Donna  Ciccia  retreated  as  soon  as  she  had  fin- 
ished, for  Gna  Vanna  took  revenge  for  the  almonds 
by  nibbling  the  tenderest  greens.  Zu  Vincenzu  had 
come  back  from  his  corner,  and  now  he  suggested, 
"Vossia,  when  you  go  to  your  own  country,  you 
must  make  known  to  the  learned  what  we  tell  you 

here.     I  myself  must "     But  Gna  Vanna  and 

the  others  interrupted  the  blind  old  man. 

The  idea  of  a  benevolent  power  and  a  power  for 
destruction  crops  out  in  many  directions.  Only  a 
few  days  after  the  almond-shelling  party  there  came 
a  partial  eclipse  of  the  sun.  An  hour  or  two  after 
the  excitement  was  over  Gna  Vanna  was  snapping 
green  beans  when  I  passed  her  door,  Zu  Vincenzu 


152  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

helping  by  shelling  beans  out  of  the  larger  pods. 
When  he  had  finished  a  handful  he  reached  them  out 
uncertainly  in  her  direction. 

"Signurinedda,  did  you  see  it  ?"  Gna  Vanna  called 
to  me,  patting  the  back  of  an  inviting  chair. 

Donna  Ciccia,  Cumari  Lucia,  who  is  Gna  Vanna's 
goddaughter,  and  others  of  the  cronies,  dropped 
their  work  to  come  to  the  doorstep  rendezvous. 
Donna  Ciccia's  nose  and  forehead  were  still 
blackened  from  gazing  through  smoked  glass.  "All 
the  better  it  is  passed,"  she  said,  her  dark  eyes 
twinkling  good-humoredly. 

Gna  Vanna  threw  the  refuse  of  the  beans  on  a 
heap  of  wool  flocks  inside  the  door,  her  thin  ani- 
mated old  face  brightening  at  the  prospect  of  an 
audience.  "Yes,"  she  repeated ;  "the  less  harm  that 
it  is  over,  for  an  eclipse  always  brings  fear." 

"Why?"  I  queried. 

"Because  the  sun  and  the  moon  are  angry  with 
each  other;  they  quarrel,  and  if  the  moon  should 
win,  it  would  destroy  the  world." 

"But  the  sun  always  wins,"  I  suggested. 

"Yes,"  agreed  Gna  Vanna.  "The  sun  is  more 
powerful.  The  sun  is  the  Madonna;  the  moon  is 
her  son,  the  Lord  Jesus ;  you  know  that." 

"How  do  I  know  that?  I  don't  understand,"  I 
said. 

"Certainly  Vossia  knows  that.  *God  is  sun  and 
God  is  moon.'    You  remember?" 


JESUS  AS  DESTROYER  153 

I  remembered  a  couplet  I  had  often  heard  her 
use  in  spells  against  the  evil  eye.    So  I  quoted: 

^°  God  is  moon  and  God  is  sun ; 
Work  you   ill  there  can   no  one. 

"That  is  what  you  mean?"  I  questioned. 

"Of  course !"  she  returned  triumphantly.  "Vossia 
is  convinced?  The  moon  is  the  young  master,  the 
sun  is  the  Madonna.  The  moon  would  like  to  burn 
the  world,  but  the  sun  does  not  permit.  To-day  the 
sun,  in  order  not  to  quarrel  with  the  moon,  hid  be- 
hind the  clouds.  Instead  of  doing  harm,  the  sun 
did  good,  because  there  came  a  little  rain.  The  Ma- 
donna is  always  kind.  She  hides  us  beneath  her 
mantle." 

The  neighbors  did  not  contradict  her  identifica- 
tions. More  or  less  openly  they  call  her  a  witch, 
openly  and  secretly  they  have,  some  more,  some  less, 
faith  in  her  knowledge  and  powers.  Cumare  Lucia 
ventured  a  wish  that  the  Madonna  would  send  rain 
enough  to  do  some  good  before  the  olives  dropped 
off  the  trees. 

The  women  drifted  away  to  their  own  doorstones, 
and  Gna  Vanna  began  to  fry  peppers  for  supper. 
As  I  rose  to  go  she  paused  in  front  of  me,  fork  in 
hand,  to  say,  "It  can't  rain;  the  rain  is  bound." 

Her  pale  blue,  bright  eyes  regarding  alternately 
me  and  the  peppers,  she  told  me  that  certain  masters 

®  Ddiu  e  suli  e  Ddiu  e  luna ; 
Supra  di  vui  nun  ci  po  persuna. 


154  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

in  charge  of  work  that  had  been  in  progress  for 
some  months  on  the  raihvay  below  us  at  Giardini 
had  tal<en  steps  before  beginning  the  job  to  insure 
good  working  weather.  They  had  made,  she  said, 
five  wooden  figures  of  the  size  of  one's  hand  and 
had  wound  them  with  cords,  each  cord  tied  with 
three,  seven,  or  nine  knots.  With  each  knot  they 
pronounced  the  words,  "No  rain!  No  rain!  No 
rain !  Always  good  weather !"  These  five  pupi  they 
buried  on  five  mountain  tops  overlooking  the  town ; 
on  Monte  Croce,  at  the  Castle  of  Taormina,  at  the 
Castle  of  Mola,  on  Monte  Ziretto  and  on  Monte 
Veneretta.  Until  these  pupi  were  dug  up  and  the 
knots  untied  there  could  be  no  rain  within  the  magic 
circle.  Whenever  clouds  gathered  instead  of  rain 
there  came  an  evil  wind,  Farauni,  and  not  more  than 
a  few  drops  fell. 

I  do  not  know  into  what  depths  of  demonology 
and  magic  we  might  have  plunged,  if  at  this  minute 
Cumari  Pancrazia,  Gna  Vanna's  daughter-in-law, 
had  not  come  to  show  us  a  photograph  she  was  about 
to  send  to  her  husband,  who  is  in  New  York.  Gna 
Vanna  never  talks  magic  when  her  daughter-in-law 
is  in  the  room.  She  says  that  Tidda  does  not  under- 
stand such  matters. 

The  group  picture  which  Tidda  had  brought  in- 
cluded likenesses  of  herself,  little  Vanna,  her 
daughter,  and  the  two  boys,  Vincenzinu  and  Bas- 
tianu,  all  painfully  clean  and  fine.  She  showed  me 
gleefully  how  she  had  pulled  down  her  short  dress 


JESUS  AS  DESTROYER  155 

under  her  apron  to  make  it  long  enough  to  cover 
her  feet,  and  called  on  us  to  admire  the  boys'  curls. 
The  poor  things  had  not  had  their  heads  shaved  for 
the  entire  summer  for  the  sake  of  growing  those 
locks. 

"He'll  eat  it!"  she  exclaimed,  anticipating  her 
husband's  pleasure. 

Gna  Vanna's  face  expressed  cold  disapproval. 
She  said  the  photographer  charged  too  much.  She 
said  that  Tidda,  who  in  the  picture  was  shown  sit- 
ting in  a  high-backed  carved  chair,  looked  like  San 
Pancrazio,  the  black  patron  saint  of  the  town,  in  his 
throne  seat  above  the  altar.  She  said  a  number  of 
other  things  which  Tidda  did  not  mind  in  the  least, 
and  so  we  forgot  all  about  the  weather  and  the 
peppers. 


PART  II 
FAIRS  AND  FESTIVALS 


CHAPTER  I 
Christmas 

"  Grande  Virgo,  Mater  Christi, 
Quae  per  aurem  concepisti, 
Gabriele  nuncio. 
Gaude  quia  Deo  plena 
Peperisti  sine  pena 
Cum  pudoris  lilio. 

— S.  Bonaventura's  Hymn. 

"Rain!  Rain!"  said  Carmela,  beckoning  from 
her  doorway  with  that  gesture  of  invitation  which 
to  the  non-Itahan  means  good-by.  The  rain,  in  fact, 
was  coming  down  so  hard  that  great  drops  jumped 
up  from  the  pavement  making  "campanelli" — little 
bells. 

Carmela  lives  in  the  Cuseni  quarter  of  Taormlna, 
where  the  streets  are  so  narrow  that  its  Corpus 
Domini  procession  is  called  "the  Lord  in  a  hole." 
I  was  bringing  Christmas  cakes  to  her  smallest 
brother,  so  I  took  shelter  hurriedly  in  the  window- 
less  room  where  three  women  huddled  around  the 

^^  Great  Virgin,  Mother  of  Christ,  thou  who  by  the  ear 
didst  conceive,  Gabriel  bearing  the  message!  Rejoice  because, 
pregnant  with  God,  thou  gavest  birth  without  pain,  with  the 
lily  of  modesty. 

159 


i6o  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

"conca"  drew  their  chairs  closer  together  to  make 
room  for  a  fourth  pair  of  feet  on  its  wooden  rim. 

"What  a  storm !"  I  exclaimed,  shivering. 

Even  Ninu,  Cicciu  and  Micciu,  babies  of  eight 
days,  six  months  and  sixteen  months,  who  lay  on 
their  mothers'  knees  with  the  passivity  of  SiciHan 
infants  accustomed  from  birth  to  the  cHck  of  knit- 
ting-needles, were  heavily  shawled. 

"But  no,  Signurinedda !"  protested  Carmela,  put- 
ting fresh  charcoal  on  the  white  ashes  of  the  conca. 
"It's  not  bad  weather.  It  is  only  a  little  passion  of 
the  heart;  and  He  is  right,  because  He  has  made 
enough  of  splendor.  For  ten  days  what  a  feast  of 
sunshine !" 

"Yes,  but  to-day " 

"Signurinedda!"  insisted  Carmela,  her  big  seri- 
ous eyes  continuing  to  reprove  me.  "One  must  not 
speak  ill  of  the  weather,  otherwise  He  gets  annoyed. 
And  the  sun,  too ;  the  sun  buries  himself  deeper  be- 
hind the  clouds,  because  He  is  discouraged." 

Carmela's  sister  Angelina,  looking  like  a  brown, 
anxious  Madonna — in  fact  like  the  Madonna  Pani- 
cottu  pictured  at  Catania — was  feeding  Micciu  with 
bread  soaked  in  hot  water.  "Where  is  Babbu?"  she 
demanded  of  the  swaddled  youngster,  poking  and 
tickling  among  his  interstices,  when  I  inquired  for 
her  husband. 

"Babbu  is  in  America ;  in  America,  figghiu  beddu ! 
Tell  the  Signurinedda  Babbu  is  in  America.  When 
is  Babbu  coming  home  to  Micciu?     In  two  years, 


CHRISTMAS  i6i 

Micciu,  tell  the  Signurinedda.  If  Babbu  makes  a 
little  money,  in  two  years  Babbu  will  come  home 
from  America.  Will  Daddy  be  glad  to  see  his  baby? 
Yes;  Daddy  has  never  seen  Micciu  at  all,  but  he  is 
very  affectionate  towards  his  little  pet.  Ask  the 
Signurinedda,  Micciu,  if  she  sees  your  presepio 
most  beautiful." 

At  mention  of  a  presepio  I  glanced  about  the 
room  whose  smoke-darkened  walls  were  hung  with 
prints  of  the  royal  family  of  Italy,  "coni" — icons — 
of  various  saints,  and  a  high-colored  poster  adver- 
tising Rhode  Island  rubber  boots.  In  one  corner 
stood  a  table  whose  oilcloth  cover  was  patterned 
with  a  big  black  Brookl3^n  Bridge  and  bordered  with 
heads  of  Roosevelt  and  Washington. 

The  design  of  the  Bridge,  which  is  common  in 
homes  from  which  Sicilians  have  emigrated,  was 
almost  hidden  by  a  presepio  so  elaborate  that  An- 
gelina was  right  to  be  proud  of  it.  Bits  of  lava, 
cork  cut  into  ingenious  shapes,  sand,  lichens  and 
green  moss  had  been  laid  out  with  the  help  of  a 
little  paint  in  a  miniature  landscape,  where  wandered 
shepherds  with  their  sheep  and  herdsmen  guarding 
cattle. 

"If  my  Christian  were  here,"  said  Angelina,  in- 
terrupting the  lullaby  she  was  singing  to  Micciu,  "he 
would  have  made  a  fountain  and  a  river — Ninna, 


nmna,  nmna,  nmna- 


Against  the  wall  at  the  back  was  a  grotto  of  lava 
stones  arched  with  ivy,  twigs  of  orange  and  lemon 


i62  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

trees  in  fruit  and  branches  of  the  sacred  thorn,  a 
buckthorn,  of  which  Christ's  crown  was  woven.  In 
the  grotto,  for  lack  of  the  traditional  wax  baby  in 
a  manger,  had  been  placed  a  small  colored  picture 
of  a  Madonna  and  Child  together  with  terracotta 
figures  of  Joseph  and  Mary,  an  ox,  an  ass  and  some 
goats  and  chickens.  At  the  mouth  of  the  cave  were 
figures  of  the  Magi  and  shepherds  bringing  gifts,  all 
colored  in  time-hallowed  tints  of  red,  dull  blue,  yel- 
low and  gray.  In  front  of  the  presepio  were  set 
offerings  of  oranges  and  lemons,  nine  snailshells  and 
two  toy  automobiles  loaded  with  dry  pennyroyal. 

For  the  automobiles  Carmela  apologized.  One 
knows  they  are  not  appropriate  to  the  presepio ;  but 
how  does  one  do?  Little  Saru,  her  brother,  insisted 
on  using  his  toys.  "He  would  even  have  put  in  a 
white  porcelain  pig!"  she  protested.  "A  rabbit, 
now,  one  might  endure,  but  a  pig  at  the  manger !" 

Carmela  had  freighted  the  machines  with  penny- 
royal because  the  herb  would  blossom  fresh  at  mid- 
night of  Christmas  Eve,  at  the  very  moment  when 
the  Babe  is  bom;  provided,  of  course,  she  had  suc- 
ceeded in  gathering  it  precisely  at  midnight  of  St. 
John's  Eve.  The  snailshells  were  nine  tiny  oil  lights 
for  the  nine  days  of  the  novena,  lamps  as  old  as  the 
automobile  is  new. 

At  this  point  of  her  explanation  entered  small 
Saru  himself,  and  at  an  ill-timed  word  about  pigs 
cast  himself  on  his  stomach  writhing.  When  I  had 
produced  "natalizi,"  which  are  twisted  Christmas 


The  Piper 


CHRISTMAS  163 

cakes  pockmarked  with  hazelnuts  baked  in  their 
shells,  he  discoursed  to  me  tearfully  between  bites 
about  the  terracotta  shepherds,  pointing  out  the  one 
that  carried  a  sheep  over  his  shoulder,  the  one  who 
was  offering  a  basket  of  curds  and  the  old  woman 
who  was  bringing  chickens,  naming  one  by  one 
traditional  figures  which  have  not  varied  for  who 
knows  how  many  generations  of  time.  He  had  just 
reached  "chiddu  chi  suona  'a  ciaramedda,"  he  who 
pipes,  when  the  drone  of  bagpipes  came  in  at  the 
open  door. 

"Gagini,"  said  everyone  in  the  room. 

Presently  there  appeared  in  the  doorway  the  old 
piper  who  has  played  the  novena  in  Taormina  for 
thirty  years.  From  morning  till  night  of  the  nine 
days  before  Christmas,  Gagini  trudges  the  ill-paved 
ways  between  the  rows  of  tiled  roofs  gray  and 
tumbled,  sounding  before  every  one  of  the  fifty  or 
more  presepie  his  shrill  pastorale.  He  brings  lentils 
and  figs  which  smell  of  the  smoky  fires  of  the  moun- 
tains, and  receives  at  the  end  a  few  soldi  here,  a  few 
lire  there,  to  which  those  good  people  who  are  able 
add  macaroni  and  sausage. 

Gagini  is  a  goatherd.  When  his  brown-black 
wards  patter  through  the  Corso  at  sunset  and  sun- 
rise, and  one  begs  for  the  milker's  last  good-measure 
squeeze  into  the  foaming  cup,  then  he  is  just  a 
good  humored  old  fellow  whom  the  boys  call  "hair- 
feet,"  because  he  wears  hide  sandals ;  but  at  Christ 
mas,  when  he  fingers  the  stops  and  sends  out  the 


i64  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

humming  notes  of  the  old  pastorale,  then  comes 
Gagini's  hour  of  dignity.  His  father  and  his 
father's  father  played  the  bagpipes.  His  son  has 
gone  to  Argentina ;  but,  he  says,  when  he  dies,  some- 
one will  rise  up  to  succeed  him,  for  the  shepherds 
played  at  the  birth  of  Christ,  and  so  long  as  the 
world  shall  last  there  must  always  be  those  v,^ho 
pay  this  devotion. 

When  the  old  piper  had  taken  his  stand  in  front 
of  the  snail-shells,  and  was  blowing  out  his  cheeks 
to  begin  the  droning  wail  of  the  first  motif,  I  slipped 
out  of  the  house;  for  if  one  listens,  it  is  to  the  very 
end,  and  then  there  are  the  colored  leather  tassels 
of  the  pipes  to  look  at  and  the  four  pipes  themselves, 
basso,  falsetto,  tenore  and  quarto.  The  sheepskin 
of  Gagini's  bag  has  darkened  till  it  is  almost  black. 
The  pipes,  too,  are  dark  and  old,  fashioned  of  some 
tough  wood  like  heather. 

But  I  did  not  stay,  because  this  was  the  morning 
when  Gna  Angela  had  promised  to  tell  me  a  tale  of 
the  birth  of  the  Bambineddu  as  she  had  heard  it 
from  her  "antichi."  More  than  once  Gna  Angela 
had  begun  the  story  for  me,  but  always  there  had 
come  some  woman  anxious  about  the  life  or  health 
of  son  or  husband  in  America,  for  news  of  whom 
she  must  repeat  the  paternoster  of  San  Giuliano; 
or  we  had  been  interrupted  by  some  shopkeeper 
begging  to  have  her  shop  rid  of  the  damage  to  busi- 
ness caused  by  the  evil  eye  of  an  envious  rival.  Gna 
Angela's  repute  as  one  who  deals  with  mysterious 


CHRISTMAS  1 6s 

powers  is  such  that  my  friends  seldom  mention  her 
except  as  "that  one";  but  they  keep  her  so  busy 
that  I  rejoiced  in  a  rainy  morning  in  the  hope  of 
finding  her  at  Hberty. 

"That  one"  lives  in  the  upper,  under-the-castle 
quarter  of  Taormina,  and  the  walk  was  windy.  By 
the  time  I  had  climbed  one  of  the  long  flights  of 
steps  that  connect  the  upper  streets  with  the  Corso, 
the  gale  had  grown  worse.  The  persistent  Sicilian 
sun  shone  fitfully,  painting  the  water  green,  yellow 
and  blue;  but  puffs  of  wind,  falling  perpendicularly 
from  the  mountains,  drovj  into  the  sea  to  such  a 
depth  that  spray  rose  high  like  jets  from  a  foun- 
tain. Looking  over  the  wall  in  front  of  the  hospice, 
I  saw  far  out  at  sea  troops  of  little  white  water- 
spouts, like  dancing  storm  spirits,  driven  towards 
shore  by  the  wind  that  came  scudding  up  the  coast 
from  Catania.  Another  minute  and  it  looked  as  if 
a  wall  of  water  were  advancing  into  the  bay  of 
Taormina. 

Gna  Angela's  bent,  tremulous  husband  stood  at 
his  door.  The  squall  carried  away  his  words,  but 
I  could  see  him  muttering,  "Evil  spirits  are  in  the 
air."  Since  the  Messina  earthquake  one  knows  that 
the  spirits  of  those  killed  before  their  time  range 
abroad,  seeking  entrance  into  human  bodies  to  com- 
plete their  period  of  earthly  habitation.  It  is  they 
who  bring  us  bad  weather. 

" Vossia !"  stammered  Zu  Paolu,  turning  towards 


1 66  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

me,  "a  tile  might  fall  on  your  head ;  it's  not  safe  to 
be  out  when  such  a  wind  is  blowing." 

Indoors  was  Gna  Angela,  bent  as  always  over  the 
"sciabica"  she  was  netting.  Yards  of  its  fine  mesh 
hung  over  a  broken  chair.  At  her  side  was  a 
"conca,"  its  wooden  shell  partly  burned,  its  mortar 
bed  holding  nothing  but  ashes.  "You  here,  daugh- 
ter !  I  was  not  looking  for  you !"  was  her  surprised 
greeting.  Before  kissing  hands  she  wiped  her  lips 
carefully. 

While  I  was  shaking  off  raindrops  the  church 
bells  and  the  bells  of  the  clock  tower  began  ringing 
to  drive  away  storm  demons,  or,  as  one  says  nowa- 
days, to  call  the  people  to  prayer  against  them. 

"Daughter,  do  you  hear?"  asked  Gna  Angela. 

"The  bells  are  tolling  'a  penitenza.'  " 

"For  the  greater  grief ;  there  is  fear  in  the  town," 
said  Zu  Paolu. 

The  walls  of  Gna  Angela's  room  are  so  grimed 
with  soot  that  the  saints  of  the  many  "coni"  show 
but  dimly.  The  battered  chest,  the  bed,  the  rack 
holding  bottles  and  a  few  bowls,  the  portable  stove 
made  of  a  square  Standard  Oil  tin — every  item  of 
furniture  had  seen  long  usage. 

The  black  fury  of  the  storm  which  awed  the  two 
old  people  made  the  squalid  place  more  desolate. 
Gna  Angela  sat  hunched  forward  in  her  chair,  her 
lean  sinewy  figure  huddling  under  its  gray  shawl. 
Her  lower  jaw  dropped,  showing  two  or  three  yel- 
low fangs.     Her  gray  hair  and  wrinkled  forehead 


CHRISTMAS  167 

retreated  under  her  faded  kerchief ;  even  her  watery- 
eyes  withdrew  deeper  into  their  cavernous  sockets. 

When  I  spoke  of  Micciu's  presepio  she  plucked  up 
heart  to  show  me  her  own,  which  was  nothing  more 
than  an  arch  of  ivy  and  myrtle  trained  over  an 
icon  of  the  Madonna,  a  little  shelf  in  front  being 
covered  with  flowers  with  an  orange  or  two  as 
offerings. 

Then  she  said,  "If  one  talks  it  is  more  better," 
and  haltingly,  with  many  pauses  to  listen  to  the 
rattle  of  the  hail,  she  began  a  story  of  Mary  which 
"my  grandmother  told  me,"  she  said  with  a  wan 
smile,  "when  I  who  now  have  four  twenties  and 
three  was  a  beautiful  young  girl." 

The  tale  must  have  been  handed  down  in  rhyme, 
I  think,  though  Gna  Angela  gave  it  to  me  confusedly 
in  verse  and  prose.  There  are  many  like  it  cur- 
rent in  Sicily,  woven  in  part,  perhaps,  out  of  old 
monkish  versions  of  the  ante-Nicene  Gospels, 
modified  by  each  generation  of  tellers  and  listeners ; 
for  a  legend  changes,  but  is  never  lost,  say  my  old 
friends. 

When  "Mariolina"  (dear  little  scamp  of  a  Maria) 
was  a  child,  she  said,  and  went  to  school,  the  mis- 
tress one  afternoon  asked  all  the  boys  and  girls  to 
remember  their  dreams  that  night  so  as  to  tell  them 
to  her  next  day.  In  the  morning,  as  soon  as  the 
children  were  assembled,  she  asked,  "Alfieddu,  what 
did  you  dream?"  Alfieddu  related  his  dream. 
\      Then  the  teacher  asked  the  same  question  of  Grazia 


i68  BY-PATHS   IN  SICILY 

and  Carmellinu  and  Pippinu,  and  one  by  one  all  the 
boys  and  girls  told  her  what  they  had  dreamed. 
Maria's  turn  came  last.  When  the  mistress  asked 
her,  "Mariolina,  what  did  you  dream.'"'  Maria 
answered: 

"I  dreamed  of  a  ray  of  sunshine  that  entered  my 
right  ear  and  by  my  left  ear  came  out  again." 

Gna  Angela  turned  towards  me,  and  lifted  a 
gnarled  yellow  finger  touching  first  the  right  side  of 
her  head  and  then  tracing  a  course  down  through 
her  body  and  up  again  on  the  left  side  to  her  left 
ear.  "Like  this,"  she  said ;  "this  was  the  course  the 
sunray  had  taken." 

The  mistress  was  im.pressed  by  this  dream.  She 
told  the  children  it  presaged  something  strange  and 
important.    She  said: 

These  things  are  clear;  it  is  no  jest; 
All  my  books  I'll  burn;  this  way  is  best. 

The  mistress  made  a  great  fire,  and  called  upon 
the  children  to  give  up  their  books  also.  Something 
so  new  and  portentous  was  about  to  happen  that 
books  of  the  old  wisdom  she  had  taught  them  had 
become  useless.  Except  Maria,  all  the  boys  and 
girls  gave  her  their  books.  The  teacher  asked 
Mariolina  among  the  others  if  she  had  burned  hers. 
The  little  girl  was  a  clever  little  rogue ;  and  she  an- 
swered with  a  play  upon  words,  "c'haiu" ;  which 
might  mean,  *T  have  them"  or  *T  have."  The  mis- 
tress supposed  she  had  obeyed;  but  Mariolina  kept 


CHRISTMAS  169 

her  book.  She  hid  It  under  her  shawl,  in  her  arm- 
pit. 

The  teacher  told  Maria  that  the  dream  was  a 
prophecy  that  she  would  give  birth  to  a  prince  or 
a  king;  and  in  fact  before  long  the  Bambineddu 
could  be  seen  in  the  girl's  body,  lying  visible  as  it 
were  through  the  sides  of  a  crystal  box. 

About  this  time  Maria's  parents  and  the  high- 
priest  and  the  judicial  authorities  married  her  to 
Giuseppe,  a  good  old  man  who  had  a  long  white 
beard.  Giuseppe  had  lands  and  houses  in  Egypt, 
and  after  the  marriage  he  said  he  must  go  to  his 
own  coimtry  to  prepare  for  his  wife.  He  went 
away  and  after  six  months  came  back  again.  When 
the  Madonnuzza  saw  him  she  said : 

12  You  are  welcome, 
Royal  husband; 

So  long  it  is  that  I've  not  seen  you. 
I  cannot  think  whatever  mean  you. 

Giuseppe  looked  at  her  with  all  his  eyes;  he  saw 
she  had  grown  big,  and  he  said  with  a  frown, 
"Make  up  my  bundle."  He  had  decided  to  leave 
her. 

"Why  are  you  going  away?"  asked  the  Ma- 
donuzza. 

"Because  you  have  betrayed  me." 

^2  Si'  bomminutu, 
Me  spusu  riari; 

E  tantu  tiempu  ca  nun  hain  virutu; 
Supra  di  vui  nun  sacciu  chi  pinsari. 


I70  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

(This  is  like  the  Protevangelium  of  James:  "And 
she  was  in  her  sixth  month;  and,  behold,  Joseph 
came  back  from  his  building,  and  entering  into  his 
house,  he  discovered  that  she  was  big  with  child. 
And  he  smote  his  face  and  threw  himself  on  the 
ground  and  wept  bitterly.") 

He  answered  her  in  hostile  wrath, 
"I  go  this  day  to  my  own  hearth; 
To  Egypt's  land  this  hour  I'm  bound. 
All  my  houses  I'll  raze  to  the  ground." 

But  at  this  point  there  descended  an  angel,  and 
said:  "Giuseppi, 

Of  the  mistress  have  no  fear; 
See,  your  stick  has  blossomed  here." 

"Understand,  daughter?"  asked  the  old  woman, 
speaking  as  eloquently  with  long  lean  hands  and 
gestures  of  the  shoulders  and  turns  of  the  corded 
neck  as  with  words  "Giuseppi  stamped  with  his 
stick,  and  it  flowered  in  his  hand." 

Giuseppe  saw  the  miracle,  and  he  exclaimed: 

"Now  that  I  know  all,  how  much  and  why, 
I  go  me  not:  I  stay  thee  by; 
Ever  I  stay  beneath  thy  cloak, 
Till  unto  life  Messiah  is.  woke." 

So  Giuseppe  remained  with  Maria,  and  to  while 
away  the  hours  of  waiting  he  took  her  to  green 
places.     She  saw  dates  hanging  from  the  branches 


CHRISTMAS  I7T 

of  a  tree,  and  she  begged,  "Climb  up,  dear  husband, 
and  get  me  some."    Giuseppi  answered: 

"Oh,  woe  is  me !    I'm  grown  too  old !" 
The  sacred  palm  bowed  to  the  mould; 
Marie  plucked  the  fruit  of  the  tree; 
San  Giuseppe  saw  the  prodigy. 

Gna  Angela's  tale  went  on  and  on,  while  her 
gray  old  husband,  who  is,  he  says,  confused  in  his 
mind,  interrupted  and  corrected,  and  now  and  then 
opened  the  door  wide  enough  to  let  in  a  wet  hen  and 
a  gust  of  rain.  At  last  we  came  to  the  point  where 
Maria  said: 

"Let  us  climb  up  under  yonder  wall; 
There  is  a  grotto  with  a  stall. 
Let  us  enter,  husband  dear." 
The  Madonnuzza's  time  was  near. 

San  Giuseppe  would  have  swept  out  the  place  for 
Maria,  but  there  was  not  time;  flights  of  angels  de- 
scended and  swept  it  for  him.  After  the  birth  the 
Madonna  was  afraid,  because  there  were  animals  in 
the  grotto,  and  she  called  to  Sant'  Anastasia,  who 
happened  to  pass: 

"Come  in !     Come  in  !     Anastasia  dear. 
Seest  thou  this  mule?     Ah,  how  I  fear! 
Take  this  my  son;  keep  him  thee  near." 

Sant'  Anastasia  had  no  hands,  but  she  stretched 
out  the  stumps  of  her  arms,  and  when  the  Madonna 


172  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

laid  the  Bambino  upon  them,  at  once  hands  appeared. 
She  gave  the  baby  to  her  blind  father,  who  was  with 
her,  and  when  he  touched  his  forehead  to  the  Child's 
forehead  he  saw. 

"Understand?"  asked  Gna  Angela  again.  *'The 
Bambino  made  hands  for  Sant'  Anastasia  and  eyes 
for  her  father.  All  day  I  sit  quite  alone  and  say 
over  to  myself  these  things  of  God." 

But  at  this  point  Zu  Paolu  announced,  "The 
weather  is  tired." 

Tired  weather  is  resting,  preparatory  to  fresh 
activities,  so  I  hurried  away  in  the  lull,  as  confused 
in  mind  as  he  between  dim  recollections  which 
ranged  from  the  old  Egyptian  faith  that  the  croco- 
dile, sacred  to  our  Lady  Isis,  conceived  by  the  ear 
when  it  brought  forth  Logos,  the  word;  and  from 
that  other  faith  that  Buddha's  mother  was  a  virgin 
impregnated  by  the  sun,  down  to  the  Sicilian  fairy 
tale  in  which  a  king's  daughter  shut  up  in  a  dark 
tower  because  a  seer  had  foretold  that  she  should 
conceive  by  light,  scraped  a  hole  in  the  wall  with 
a  bone,  and  bore  a  child  to  the  bright  beam  that  shot 
through  the  crevice. 

When  I  reached  home  I  heard  the  padrona  call- 
ing, "Three  castles  and  you  want  more?"  So  I 
knew  that  Mariuccia  and  Vanni  were  playing  games 
with  hazelnuts.  In  Sicily  nuts  take  the  place  of 
marbles.  One  uses  hazelnuts  at  Christmas  and 
almonds  in  August,  and  the  games  are  the  same  that 
were  played  in  ancient  Rome  and  that  are  played 


CHRISTMAS  173 

in  America.  Four  nuts  heaped  pyramidally  make 
a  castle ;  at  this  one  pitches  a  fifth  nut,  and  he  who 
knocks  it  down  wins. 

Luncheon  was  not  ready,  so  we  took  a  tile  out 
of  the  dining-room  floor,  making  a  ditch  to  play 
"a  fossetta."  For  this  game  you  throw  eight  nuts 
at  once.  If  an  even  number  go  into  the  ditch,  you 
win  and  have  the  right  to  snap  in  the  others  with 
thumb  and  finger.  If  an  odd  number,  you  lose  and 
the  other  player  snaps  in  his  nuts. 

There  had  come  for  me  a  box  from  Palermo,  a 
huge  Christmas  cake  topped  with  a  sugar  image  of 
the  Bambino  surrounded  by  spiky  rays  of  gold  and 
silver  tinsel.  After  luncheon  Vanni  earned  his 
share  of  it  by  rehearsing  the  piece  he  was  to  speak 
in  church  after  the  midnight  mass  Christmas  morn- 
ing, explaining  the  church  presepio.  He  had  not 
yet  learned  it  glibly;  but  "rough  cave,"  "squalid 
manger"  and  "Babe  that  wept  for  lack  of  comforts" 
came  out  efifectively. 

I  had  picked  up  somewhere  a  little  old  hand  loom, 
shaped  like  a  gridiron,  and  the  good-natured 
padrona  tried  to  teach  me  to  weave  braid,  while  we 
wore  away  the  hours  of  a  storm  Sicilian  in  its 
beauty  as  in  violence.  Overhead  there  drifted  a 
gray  transparent  veil  of  cloud  borne  by  the  wind, 
and  spilling  as  it  flew  great  hailstones  that  tore  the 
first  white  blossoms  from  the  almond  trees  in  the 
garden  and  rolled  them  in  drifts  on  the  terrace.  The 
sun  burnt  hot  on  the  sea,  streaking  it  silver  and  dark 


174  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

blue,  except  where  the  waters  of  the  swollen  Al- 
cantara made  splashes  of  gold,  brown  and  gray. 
Towards  mid-afternoon  the  gale  increased,  and  the 
bells  tolled  once  more  their  spell. 

The  padrona  has  almost  as  many  old  tales  at  her 
tongue's  end  as  has  Gna  Angela.  "Do  you  know," 
she  asked  smiling  at  my  interest,  "that  three  ani- 
mals on  three  mountain  tops  announced  the  birth 
of  the  Bambineddu?  First  the  ox  lowed,  'E  nas- 
ciutu  lu  Redinturi  di  lu  mu-u-u-u-u-nnu !  There  is 
bom  the  Redeemer  of  the  world !'  "  She  prolonged 
the  Italian  "u"  to  imitate  the  bellow  of  an  ox. 
"Then  the  ass  brayed  from  his  hill,  'Un-n-n-n-n-'e  ? 
Where  is  he  ?'  and  from  the  third  mountain  the  goat 
bleated,  'A  Be-e-e-e-e-e-tlem.'  " 

"Then  these  animals  are  blessed?"  I  suggested, 
considering  the  reward  of  well-doing. 

"But,  no,  Signora,"  she  returned  in  surprise;  "the 
ox,  yes;  because  in  the  grotto  it  warmed  with  its 
sweet  breath  the  Child's  napkins.  But  the  ass  ate 
the  Child's  straw  out  from  under  him.  And  the 
goat  also  had  no  respect  for  the  Child;  it  walked 
over  him,  and  for  this  the  goat  is  accursed;  but 
some  say  only  from  the  knees  down." 

So  the  day  faded  and  at  night  Etna  wore  an 
aureole  of  gold.  Next  morning  the  streets  were 
littered  with  broken  tiles,  but  sea  and  sky  had 
resumed  their  festival  of  sunshine.  It  was  the 
twenty-fourth  of  December.  Over  the  casino  where 
gathers  the  "Civil  Club"  the  knotted  old  bougain- 


CHRISTMAS  175/ 

villea  vine  was  in  glorious  blossom.  Hedges  of  red 
geraniums  warmed  the  air,  and  the  fields  were  full 
of  wild  iris. 

Towards  night  a  blind  ballad-singer,  led  by  his 
wife,  plodded  up  the  old  road  from  Giardini.  Up 
and  down  the  Corso  and  into  the  narrowest  side 
streets  he  wandered,  singing  to  his  squeaky  violin 
a  Christmas  song  that  is  common  on  the  lips  of  the 
older  cantastorie.  In  the  evening  when  the  Christ- 
mas fire  was  lighted  in  front  of  the  church  of  Santa 
Caterina,  he  was  still  there,  wailing  in  a  cracked 
voice: 

On  the  eve  of  the  Birth 

There's  rejoicing  on  earth; 

For  the  dear  Babe  was  born, 

To  sound  of  drum  and  horn. 

S.  Joseph,  the  Uttle  old  man, 

To  walk  he  began; 

With  good  staff  in  hand 

A  hundred  miles  he  walked  the  land 

Till  a  cavern  he  found, 

Where  he  swept  the  ground, 

For  snow  and  rain  had  fallen  there. 

So  when  came  her  hour  to  bear, 

A  great  lady  bore  her  son, 

Bore  a  beautiful  little  one. 

He  who  passed  her  did  adore; 

What  beautiful  fruit  't  was  Mary  bore! 

Just  before  midnight,  when  the  long  evening  had 
been  whiled  away  with  nuts  and  cards,  the  starlit 
streets  were  filled  with  dark  figures  converging  at 
the  Duomo,  where  before  the  hour  for  mass  the  old 


176  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

red  marble  bench,  once  the  throne  of  Taormina's 
Senate,  now  the  rendezvous  of  unattached  boys,  re- 
sounded to  swinging  heels. 

Mass  over  and  a  naked  doll  Jesus  revealed  on  the 
altar  by  the  lifting  of  a  napkin,  the  flood  of  people 
streamed  towards  the  Carmine,  where  a  presepio 
with  life-size  figures  and  real  hay  filled  one  of  the 
chapels.  Vanni's  discourse  was  not  audible,  for 
outside  the  church,  as  soon  as  the  second  mass  was 
finished,  red,  green  and  blue  lights  flared,  rockets 
fizzed,  and  preparatory  to  the  street  procession  two 
brass  bands  began  to  flare.  The  crowd  which  had 
come  almost  to  blows  with  uplifted  chairs  in  its 
struggle  to  get  in  was  even  more  anxious  to  get  out 
again.  At  my  side  the  peasant  who  had  turned  the 
wheel  of  bells  to  punctuate  the  mass,  scrambled 
hastily  across  benches  to  get  his  banner,  shaking 
over  his  head  the  while  the  white  processional  sack 
of  his  confraternity. 

Presently  through  the  dark  Corso  passed  the 
image  of  the  baby  Jesus  carried  by  the  arciprete  and 
lighted  by  flaring  torches.  Before  it  marched  the 
"concerti  musicali,"  and  behind  it  three  men  played 
bag-pipes.  Then  came  men  costumed  as  Magi  and 
shepherds,  and  after  these  the  people  of  Taormina, 
a  black  mass  of  muffled  figures,  cloaked  and  shawled 
as  if  the  mercury  had  said  zero,  instead  of  perhaps 
fifty-five  degrees. 

After  the  masses  and  the  procession,  when  the 
fast  of  the  vigilia  is  over,  is  the  time  to  eat  one's 


CHRISTMAS  177 

cake,  with  more  substantial  food,  unless  sleep  seems 
preferable. 

It  is  at  Caltagirone  that  one  should  really  pass 
Christmas,  where  the  Bambino  cult  requires  a  liv- 
ing Bambineddu.  The  little  Jesus  is  chosen  by  lot 
from  among  poor  boys  about  three  years  old,  pre- 
sented for  alms  by  their  parents;  but  the  lot  never 
falls,  I  am  told,  on  any  except  a  beautiful  blond. 
After  the  midnight  mass  Giuseppe  and  Maria  lead 
the  blond  Jesus  between  them  from  the  sacristy  to 
the  altar,  where  the  naked  mite,  sometimes  whimper- 
ing with  cold,  is  exposed  for  perhaps  half  an  hour. 


CHAPTER  II 
Troina  Fair 

From  Messina  Roger  advanced  by  Rametta  and  Centorbi 
to  Troina,  a  hill-town  raised  hijjh  above  the  level  of  the  sea 
within  view  of  the  solemn  blue-black  pyramid  of  Etna. 
There  he  planted  a  garrison  in  1062,  two  years  after  his  first 
incursion  into  the  island. — /.  A.  Symonds,  "Sketches  and 
Studies  in  Soutlicrn  Europe." 

Before  dawn  I  peered  from  my  window  in 
Randazzo  at  the  impending  mountain.  Above  a 
huddle  of  black  old  houses  Etna  loomed  dark  and 
clear  and  calm,  a  breath  of  smoke  drifting  from  its 
vaguely  white  summit.    It  would  be  a  good  day. 

Coffee  had  been  promised  for  three  o'clock,  but 
when  I  had  groped  my  way  down  stairs  nothing  in 
the  disorderly  inn  seemed  astir  except  swarms  of 
flies  that,  disturbed  by  my  candle  flame,  crawled 
sluggishly  over  wine-stained  tablecloths,  and  -then 
were  still  again.  Stumbling  over  broken  floor-tiles, 
I  prowled  in  search  of  a  bell.  The  eating-room  was 
windowless,  but  as  the  light  flickered  along  the  walls 
from  garish  saints  to  steamship  posters  it  touched 
a  key  hanging  beside  the  street  door.  Despairing  of 
breakfast,  I  fumbled  with  bolts  and  stepped  uncer- 
tainly into  the  open  air. 

178 


TROINA  FAIR  179 

The  stars  had  hardly  begun  to  pale.  The  old 
lava-black  city  perched  high  on  the  Northern  slopes 
of  Etna  was  still  asleep ;  dreaming,  perhaps,  of  days 
when  beneath  its  gates  Greek  and  Saracen  and  Nor- 
man bloodied  the  waters  of  the  Simeto  and  Alcan- 
tara. Behind  Randazzo's  walls  in  Roman  times  the 
slave  Salvius  gathered  40,000  slaves  to  fight  For 
freedom.  Past  the  church  of  Santa  Maria  that  rose 
somber  at  my  right  marched  Peter  of  Aragon's  bow- 
men in  the  days  when  the  Vespers  rang  the  knell  of 
the  French  in  Sicily.  Through  the  dim  Corso  wind- 
ing left,  Charles  the  Fifth,  Emperor  of  the  World, 
flaunted  his  bronzed  captains  and  his  laurels  won  in 
Africa. 

As  I  shrank  into  the  doorway  out  of  the  path  of 
ghostly  processions  a  voice  said,  "Signura?" 

A  muffled  figure  detached  itself  from  the  house- 
wall. 

"Silvestro?"  I  ventured. 

"Signura,  it  is  late.    Shall  we  go?'* 

"Let  us  go !"  I  answered,  trying  to  recognize  the 
driver  with  whom  I  had  covenanted  for  a  three 
days'  trip  to  Troina,  the  first  Sicilian  capital  of  the 
Great  Count  Roger  the  Norman. 

Two  horses  attached  to  a  carrozzela  shifted  their 
feet  sleepily.  Silvestro,  his  long  wispy  mustache 
and  faded  eyes  peering  at  me  from  under  the 
shawls  that  wrapped  his  head  and  drooping  shoul- 
ders, picked  up  my  bag.    I  climbed  to  a  seat.    The 


i8o  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

whip  cracked  and  our  wheels  were  rattHng  when 
behind  us  there  rose  a  clamor. 

"Silvistru !  The  coffee  of  the  Signura !"  In  the 
inn  doorway,  half-clad,  shrieked  the  fat  padrona, 
madly  waving  a  candle.  "Blessed  little  Madonna! 
Wait!     Sil-vis-tru!" 

"Silvistru !  A  gut-twisting  colic  to  you !"  bawled 
Pietro,  son  of  the  house,  shaking  back  his  lock  of 
tow-colored  hair  as  he  tilted  towards  us  on  gro- 
tesquely tall  heels. 

"By  the  souls  of  my  dead!"  sputtered  the  old 
padrone,  limping  to  the  carriage-side  with  coffee  pot 
and  drinking  bowl. 

In  spite  of  Silvestro's  muttered  "Accidinti !  It 
is  late!"  I  swallowed  a  scalding  mouthful.  Then 
after  hasty  farewells  we  clattered  through  the  tor- 
tuous Corsp  flanked  by  grim  mediseval  houses — a 
stronghold  in  itself  where  in  troublous  times  men 
might  bar  themselves  against  all  enemies.  Suddenly 
wheeling  to  the  right,  we  plunged  into  a  black 
passage.  Straining  my  eyes  towards  the  arches 
that  linked  the  walls  overhead,  I  was  surprised  by 
the  stopping  of  the  horses. 

Alighting  at  a  murky  doorway,  Silvestro  picked 
from  the  skirts  of  a  woman  who  came  to  meet  us 
a  mite  of  a  girl  whom  he  lifted  to  my  side. 

"Aita,"  he  ordered,  "put  on  your  hat.  Aita,  blow 
your  nose." 

Silvestro  has  suggested  to  me  earlier  that  his 
wife,  who,  like  himself,  came  from  the  Alpine  rock 


TROINA  FAIR  i8i 

oi  Troma,  would  like  to  see  again  the  great  yearly- 
fair  which  was  my  excuse  for  the  expedition.  A 
mention  of  three  bimbi  too  small  to  stay  behind  had 
restrained  me  from  hospitality;  but  here  was  one 
child,  and  Silvestro  had  gone  indoors.  Must  I 
transport  the  family  ? 

"Her  name  Is  Agata?"  I  asked  dubiously. 

"Si,  Signora;  Aita,"  returned  the  mother,  trying 
to  adjust  a  flower-wreathed  hat  which  the  child 
pushed  fretfully  away  from  her  light  stringy  hair. 

Before  I  could  question  further  the  lank  driver 
reappeared,  cuddling  something  under  his  shawls. 

"Let  the  Signura  look !"  he  swaggered.  He  held 
up  in  the  circle  of  his  long  arms  two  almost  naked 
babies.     "Let  her  see  how  blond  they  are!" 

"Especially  the  boy?"  I  hazarded,  glancing  fear- 
fully at  the  scant  yellow  hair  of  the  wriggling 
twins. 

"Gia !  Turriddu  is  blond  as  honey.  Daddy's  big 
boy!" 

"Turriddu  is,  in  fact,  the  handsomer,"  beamed 
the  mother;  "but  to-day  he  is  ill,  he  eats  nothing. 
The  Signura  will  excuse  that  I  do  not  take  him, 
ugly  with  crying,  to  Troina?  Aita  will  keep  the 
Signura  company." 

Effusively  I  took  leave  of  the  small  pale  diplo- 
mat who  had  let  me  off  with  one  baby.  "Buon 
divirtimentu !"  she  called  as  the  horses  started.  "Be 
good,  Aita." 

"Aita,  put  on  your  hat !"  repeated  Silvestro.    "It 


i82  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

is  late."  But  the  five-year-old  snuggled  down  in  the 
coat  I  put  about  her,  teasing  sleepily,  "Papa,  buy  me 
a  doll?" 

As  we  passed  West  out  of  Randazzo,  Mongibello 
rose  South  of  us,  green  and  black  against  the 
whitening  sky,  the  snow  that  still  streaked  its  shoul- 
ders contrasting  harshly  with  sooty  fingers  of  lava. 
In  the  East  filaments  of  dawn  clouds  floated;  and, 
while  I  watched,  the  mountain  top  blushed  saffron. 
In  an  instant  the  fairy  glow  had  vanished;  and, 
shut  away  from  us  by  rugged  heights,  the  sun  had 
risen  from  the  Calabrian  hills. 

We  were  following  up  the  Alcantara  between 
Etna  and  a  scrap  of  rock  that  dropped  abruptly  to 
the  river,  beyond  whose  high  valley  we  looked 
North  to  the  foothills  of  the  Peloritan  mountains, 
mottled  dark  with  oaks  and  the  vivid  green  of 
wheat.  Behind  us  Randazzo  on  its  seat  of  ancient 
lava  overhung  the  cliff,  the  Norman  tower  of  San 
Martino  thrusting  up  above  the  black  houses. 

Along  the  lonely  road  we  passed  now  and  again 
dark  hooded  figures  hunched  over  slow-stepping 
mules.  Huddled  in  a  rough  cappotto  worn  like  a 
burnoose,  its  hood  pulled  over  the  forehead,  its 
sleeves  hanging  empty,  gun  on  his  shoulder  or  slung 
at  his  back,  man  after  man  turned  towards  us  a 
lean,  leathery  face  with  high  cheekbones  and  keen, 
suspicious  eyes. 

Leaving  the  river,  we  held  Southwest  across  a 
wilderness  of  lava  that  lay  as  grim  in  the  early  light 


TROINA  FAIR  183 

as  when  centuries  ago  it  crunched  and  hissed  down 
from  a  spent  crater  above  our  heads,  one  of  the 
two  hundred  "sons"  that  sprout  from  the  sides  of 
Etna.  Hardly  had  we  entered  this  waste,  sar- 
donically gay  with  flame-colored  lichens,  when  the 
air  was  filled  with  bleatings.  Bunched  beside  the 
road  in  an  amazing  hamlet  we  came  upon  black  pens 
roughly  piled  of  slag  and  clinkers.  Of  the  shep- 
herds' huts  beside  these  grimy  folds  a  few  were 
roofed  with  new  red  tiles  but  the  most  were  caves 
supplied  by  bubbles  in  the  lava. 

"Licotta!"  lisped  Aita,  struggling  to  a  sitting 
position. 

"Ricotta?  Sure!  What  says  the  Signora?" 
asked  Silvestro,  twisting  his  bent  shoulders  towards 
me.  *'Zu  Puddu!"  he  shouted, _  as  in  a  yard  where 
steaming  kettles  spoke  of  cheese-making  there 
started  up  a  dwarfish  old  man. 

"Don  Silvistru!"  returned  the  other. 

Agile  as  a  lizard  the  shepherd  came  towards  us, 
his  little  black  eyes  lively  with  curiosity.  Behind 
him  raced  swart  children  and  from  a  hovel  peeped 
a  bare-legged  woman.  "Ricotta?"  she  echoed.  "I 
myself  strained  the  milk  through  fern  leaves  and 
stirred  it  with  wild  olive  twigs."  Her  great  ear- 
rings shook  as  she  trotted  to  the  carriage-side,  fetch- 
ing a  wooden  bowl  full  of  curds  made  from  "re- 
cooked"  whey. 

While  we  ate  Zu  Puddu  questioned,  "Is  it  true 
that  in  the  land  of  the  Signura  they  do  not  know 


1 84  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

ricotta?"  His  face  puckered  with  wonder.  "When 
the  cheese  is  made  the  'Murricani  throw  away  the 
whey?" 

After  breakfast  our  road  forked,  one  branch  veer- 
ing South  towards  Bronte,  home  of  the  thunder 
god,  and  the  other,  which  we  followed,  West  across 
the  mountain-surrounded  valley  from  which  issue 
both  the  Simeto  and  the  Alcantara.  Running  sea- 
ward, one  West  and  South  of  Etna,  the  other  North 
of  it,  the  rivers  enclose  the  mountain,  opening  high- 
ways which  Sicanians,  Siculians,  Phoenicians, 
Greeks,  Carthagenians — every  race  that  has  known 
Sicily — ^has  followed  between  the  coasi  and  the  in- 
terior of  the  island. 

The  land  was  blotched  with  lava.  On  its  North- 
ern face  Mongibello's  black  glaciers  sprawl  until 
they  strike  the  Peloritan  rocks  and  the  hills  of 
Cesaro  and  Centorbi  backed  against  the  Nebrodeans. 
One  minute  we  were  passing  green  waves  of  wheat 
or  fave,  the  mouth-filling  broad  bean;  the  next  we 
were  crossing  an  old  lava  flow,  whose  slowly 
crumbling  substance  lay  here  in  hummocks  and 
there  in  pools  wrinkled  like  molasses.  Here  molten 
stone  had  tossed  in  inky  surf  and  there  it  had  broken 
over  some  obstacle  in  mud-colored  rapids  of  coke 
and  clinkers. 

From  crevices  of  the  rock  grew  mullein  stalks 
and  sunburnt  weeds.  Dwarfed  and  twisted  cactus 
wrestled  for  existence.  Over  the  road  hovered 
sulphur-yellow  butterflies.    Once  or  twice  we  started 


TROINA  FAIR  185 

quail.  We  met  a  begging  friar  riding  a  mule  whose 
saddle-bags  bulged. 

"Beetle!"  spat  Silvestro,  making  the  sign  of  the 
horns. 

The  enormous  straw  hat  above  the  brown  habit 
did  not  turn.  The  fingering  of  the  rosary  went  on 
as  mechanically  as  the  plodding  of  the  mule. 

It  was  the  first  day  of  June  and  the  sunrays 
began  to  prick.  A  light  scirocco  was  stirring,  the 
cloudless  sky  looked  pale.  Etna  had  hidden  his 
oaks  and  chestnuts,  his  yellow  splashes  of  genestra 
and  his  stretching  lava  fingers  behind  blue  aerial 
veils.  Quivering  in  the  distances  ahead  of  us  blue 
and  white  dream  castles  seemed  to  float  on  clouds. 
Silvestro  named  them — Agira,  where  Diodorus 
Siculus  was  born,  though  Silvestro  knew  him  not, 
and  where  S.  Filippo  cast  out  devils;  Centuripe  on 
its  hundred  rocks  and  lofty  Trcina. 

"It  makes  hot,"  fretted  Aita. 

She  twisted  herself  out  of  her  wraps  and  dis- 
closed an  odd  little  figure  in  a  soiled  blue  dress.  Red 
strings  tied  up  greenish  stockings. 

"Put  it  on,  Aita!"  bade  Silvestro;  but  the  mite, 
instead  of  complying,  dropped  at  her  feet  the  dis- 
tasteful hat. 

"Aita  is  wild,"  pursued  Silvestro.  "Not  that  I 
hold  with  hats ;  chinicchi-nacchi !"  he  added.  "But 
let  one  woman  bring  home  fantastic  gear  from 
America,  every  skirt  in  town  goes  mad  for  it."  He 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  exposing  patched,  sun-faded 


i86  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

raiment,  far  from  fantastic.  "Aita,  blow  your 
nose !" 

We  had  crossed  the  dry  bed  of  the  Flascio  and 
had  come  to  a  succession  of  no-trespassing  signs 
that  read,  "Duca  di  Bronte;  Private  Street." 
**Duca  di  Bronte;  Hunting  Forbidden."  North  of 
us  lay  the  vast  feud,  once  of  the  Abbots  of  Maniace, 
which  Ferdinand  IV  gave  to  Nelson,  rewarding  with 
a  dukedom  the  Admiral's  betrayal  of  the  Republic 
of  Naples. 

The  strawberry-leaved  notices  marked  more  than 
the  "too  fine  compliment."  "La  Nave,"  the  lava 
stream  that  flooded  the  valley,  lay  desert  as  far  as 
our  road,  but  across  it  on  the  Duke's  side  shimmered 
waist-high  wheat.  As  we  drew  under  the  wooden 
ridges  that  shut  the  valley  to  the  North  Silvestro 
prattled  of  the  Duke's  rich  lands,  of  his  olives,  his 
vines  and  his  strange  machines.  So  we  reached  the 
crossways  where  the  road  from  Bronte,  traversing 
the  "Ship,"  cuts  the  highway  before  climbing  to  the 
nook  in  the  hills  where  lies  Nelson's  castle. 

The  plain  of  the  "sconfitta,"  Silvestro  to  my  de- 
light called  the  region;  for  after  a  thousand  years 
daily  speech  still  records  the  rout  to  which  in  1040 
Georges  Maniaces  here  put  60,000  Saracens.  The 
Greek  was  besieging  Moslem  Siracusa  when  Abd 
Allah's  hosts  poured  down  from  beyond  Etna  to  our 
plain,  not  yet  blackened  by  La  Nave,  whence  he 
could  reach  the  sea.  Taken  thus  behind,  Maniaces 
led  his  Norse  and  his  Russians,  his  Asiatics,  his 


TROINA  FAIR  187 

Italians  and  his  Norman  knights  up  by  the  Simeto. 
He  camped  near  wood  and  water,  and  the  spot  has 
never  lost  his  name.  Abd  Allah  sowed  the  ground 
with  caltrops,  but  Maniaces  attacked  with  a  wind 
that  drove  with  him  and,  despite  the  iron  barbs  his 
cavalry  "reaped"  the  Saracens. 

We  crossed  the  Simeto  and  began  to  crawl  up  the 
interminable  windings  of  the  hills  down  which  came 
Abd  Allah  and,  later,  a  greater  than  his  conqueror 
— Roger,  son  of  Tancred,  who  added  Sicily  to  the 
domains  of  the  Normans. 

It  was  a  confusion  of  mountains  that  we  entered, 
mountains  that  rode  one  another's  backs.  Aside 
from  the  red-painted  stations  of  the  road-menders, 
there  were  few  houses,  fewer  trees.  The  sun  was 
blinding  on  the  white  ribbon  of  the  road.  The 
baked  soil  opened  in  drought  fissures. 

As  we  climbed  past  thirsty  wheat  and  fave,  the 
horses,  gray  with  white  feet,  like  those  Goethe  saw 
in  Sicily,  stopped  to  breathe ;  and  from  a  close  above 
the  roadway  limped  down  a  gray  man  wrinkled 
like  a  baked  apple.  Eyeing  us  curiously,  he  piled 
my  lap  with  scalora,  refusing  payment  with  head 
and  hands  as  well  as  voice  that  squeaked,  "The 
owner,  it  is  I!"  But  when  Silvestro  priced  arti- 
chokes, fearing  Troina's  high  cost  of  festa,  our 
owner,  turning  merchant,  turned  miser.  Ten 
minutes  he  haggled  before  the  horses'  water  basin 
was  heaped  with  them. 

As  we  crept  up  zigzag  after  zigzag  Aita  nibbled 


i88  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

the  straight  green  lettuce.  High  above  us  Cesaro 
showed  at  moments,  a  gray  mass  above  a  gray 
mountain.  In  the  hot  sky  to  the  left  quivered 
Troina.  Silvestro  bargained  with  a  gunner  for  a 
quail  to  make  broth  "for  Turriddu,  who  eats 
nothing." 

After  we  had  broken  fast  on  bread  and  eggs  at 
a  roadside  locanda,  wayfaring  in  the  noonday  heat 
grew  slower.  The  sun  beat  on  lonely  pasture  coun- 
try where  the  silence  was  broken  only  by  the  wail- 
ing song  of  laborers  stacking  scant  hay.  On  rocky 
hillslopes  stretched  sheepfolds  defended  by  the 
thorny  spina  santa.  Conical  thatched  huts  rose  near 
them,  the  shepherds'  shelters. 

At  last  the  road  twisted  downward,  grazing 
precipices,  looping  over  ridges,  dipping  into  hol- 
lows. Below  us  lay  the  valley  of  the  Troina  River, 
a  green  streak  in  a  gray  desert.  Under  naked  banks 
cattle  cooled  their  feet  in  the  trickle  of  water.  Be- 
yond the  river  we  crept  for  an  hour  up  dizzy  shelves 
of  the  mountainside,  catching  glimpses  now  of  the 
depths  below,  now  of  the  eagles'  perch  above.  The 
gray  tufa  blocks  of  which  it  is  built  mortised 
squarely  into  its  tufa  clififs,  house  above  house, 
street  above  street,  Roger's  city  sits  its  mountain 
ridge  as  If  astride  a  saw. 

Reaching  wearily  the  tumble-down  Cenobio  of 
S.  Basilio,  we  skirted  the  slope  where  the  greatest 
animal  fair  of  Sicily  would  open  at  gunfire,  and 
woimd  along  under  the  far  side  of  the  town;  for 


TROINA  FAIR  189 

no  road  attacks  the  ancient  citadel  except  cautiously, 
from  behind.  Was  it  to  this  same  gate,  I  wondered, 
that  Roger  led  his  freebooters  when,  plundering 
Sicily  twenty-two  years  after  Maniaces,  he  threat- 
ened Greek  Troina;  and  its  Christian  people,  still 
free  from  the  Moslem  on  their  rock  in  the  wild  Val 
Demone,  opened  to  the  blond  Norman  horse  thief 
and  welcomed  him  with  crosses  and  swinging  cen- 
sers as  a  protector  against  the  Saracens. 

Inside  the  gate  Silvestro  pulled  up  at  a  squalid 
locanda  provided,  he  assured  me,  with  "all  the  con- 
veniences of  English  usage.  Put  on  your  hat, 
spoiled  child !"  he  railed  cheerfully  at  Aita  as  a  knot 
of  acquaintances  started  towards  him. 

The  Stella's  fat  little  asthmatic  padrone  led  me 
into  a  dark  passage  that  ran  through  the  inn  and 
opened  one  of  a  procession  of  low  doors. 

"What  pleases  you?"  he  panted  amiably.  "Shall 
Silvistru  unharness?" 

The  grimy  walls  once  whitewashed  and  the  dirty 
floor  to  which  I  was  introduced  did  not  please  me 
twenty  francs'  worth,  that  being  the  room's  price 
per  night;  but,  explained  my  host,  in  June  God 
gives  Troina  the  providence  of  the  fair.  When 
Uncle  January  should  send  snow  to  stop  travel,  my 
excellency  might  stay  the  night  for  a  lira.  Besides, 
his  wife  was  giving  me  her  own  room. 

His  wife  had  already  fetched  a  petroleum  tin 
full  of  water,  drops  of  which  made  mud  on  the 
bricks.    Mumbling  that  the  servant  creature  was 


igo  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

out,  she  produced  soap  and  a  broken  comb.  She 
uncurled  a  mountainous  roll  of  mattress  at  the 
foot  of  a  bed,  spreading  it  on  boards  that  rested 
on  iron  horses.  From  a  deep  chest  she  took  home- 
spun linen  and  a  blue  spread  figured  with  red, 
trumpet-blowing  angels. 

While  she  examined  my  hat  and  dusty  clothing, 
fingered  my  watch  and  flattered  as  "blond"  my 
tanned  skin,  I  tripped  over  everything  I  tried  to  say, 
fascinated  by  the  erratic  motions  of  my  hostess' 
one  tooth  and  by  her  straining  eyebrows,  dragged 
up  from  the  yellow  parchment  of  her  face  by  a 
sinfully  tight  knot  of  hair. 

.Before  I  had  detailed,  as  in  duty  bound,  my  per- 
sonal history  and  excused  the  absence  of  other 
members  of  my  family,  Silvestro  returned  alone, 
having  shifted  to  a  sister  the  job  of  getting  Aita's 
hat  on.  With  him  as  guide  I  abandoned  my  "Eng- 
lish comforts"  for  the  narrow  street,  where  push- 
carts and  benches,  ropes  of  sparta  grass  and  forks 
for  thrashing,  sickles  and  "ingeneri,"  which  are 
wooden  angles  for  holding  grain  in  reaping, 
awaited  the  opening  of  the  fair. 

A  foxskin  hung  beside  a  door,  hinting  at  wild 
country;  but  as  we  climbed  the  Corso  Ruggiero  I 
saw  little,  aside  from  crumbling  walls  bare  of 
windows  and  balconies  and  grimly  eloquent  of  win- 
ter, of  such  individuality  as  marks  Castrogiovanni 
and  other  mountain  strongholds. 

At  the  top  of  the  town,  5,600  feet  above  the  sea, 


TROINA  FAIR  ^pi 

we  came  to  Roger's  cathedral,  built  beside  his  castle 
by  masons  whom  the  Great  Count  brought  from  "all 
parts  soever."  Rebuilt  except  its  belfry,  it  covers 
now  the  castle  ruins.  Above  its  high  altar  sat  en- 
throned, not  Mary,  patron  saint  of  the  devout 
marauder,  but  S.  Silvestro,  a  monk  who  worked 
marvels  in  Troina  in  Roger's  day,  and  who  for 
centuries  has  been  Troina's  patron.  His  festa  it  was 
that  the  great  fair  honored. 

I  had  barely  a  glimpse  of  his  silvery  robes  and 
the  silver  vara  on  which  he  takes  his  outings,  and 
of  the  brown  old  pictures  in  the  sacristy  of  Roger 
and  his  brother-in-law  Robert,  first  Norman  bis- 
hop of  Troina;  for  it  was  four  o'clock,  the  hour  of 
gunfire.  Down  a  narrow  way  on  the  east  side  of 
the  town  Silvestro  rushed  me  to  a  rock  shelf  de- 
fended by  a  parapet  directly  above  the  uneven 
stretch  of  rolling  hillside  called  the  "plain"  of  the 
fair. 

Seldom  has  fairground  a  more  grandiose  setting. 
Over  a  world  of  mountains  our  isolated  peak  stood 
guard,  watching  the  passes  in  the  valleys.  Far  be- 
low us  the  Troina  River  joined  the  Simeto.  Be- 
yond Cesaro  rose  naked  hills,  ridge  above  ridge; 
sunburnt  lands  of  wheat  and  pasture.  Almost  in 
front,  under  a  rain  of  light  and  shadow  dropped  by 
the  sun  through  motionless  clouds,  dimly  visible 
through  the  scirocco,  loomed  Etna,  and  beyond  it 
something  hinted  the  sea. 

A  shot  rang  out  and  the  empty  plain  was  black 


192  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

with  cattle.  From  everywhere  and  from  nowhere 
trampling  droves  covered  the  hillslope;  rushing 
from  this  side,  that  side,  meeting,  passing,  losing 
themselves  in  swirling  maelstroms,  each  stream  of 
horns  or  tossing  heads  driving  hard  towards  its  own 
goal. 

"What  a  sight !"  shouted  Silvestro.  "They  shoot, 
and  gone  is  the  grass!" 

The  grass  had  vanished  under  the  hoofs  of  horses 
and  mules,  bulls  and  cows  which  milled  so  thick 
"one  could  not  drop  a  grain  of  wheat  between 
them!"  And  this,  Silvestro  boasted,  was  only  the 
prelude!  A  fine  show,  yes,  but  nothing  to  the  fair 
next  day. 

"From  as  far  away  as  Calabria/'  he  gloated, 
"come  beasts  to  Troina  I" 

After  the  confusion  of  harried  animals  had  sub- 
sided I  scrambled  down  to  the  plain.  Men  and 
beasts  were  settling  themselves  on  hummocks  and 
in  hollows;  the  herdsmen  in  taciturn  groups  lean- 
ing on  goadsticks — black  as  Moors  they  were,  with 
high  cheekbones  and  wild,  not  unkindly  faces;  the 
cattle  snuffing  the  grass  that  had  grown  three 
months  uncut  to  give  them  forage.  A  path  was  al- 
ready trodden  to  a  fountain  behind  the  Stella,  and 
boys  all  patches  and  beady  eyes  were  fetching  water. 

As  I  ventured  among  the  horses,  few  of  which 
were  hobbled  or  tethered,  I  caught  gloomy  phrases 
about  a  "cold  fair."  With  its  bustle  and  its  huge- 
ness the  fair  looked  far  from  "cold";  but  perhaps 


TROINA  FAIR  193 

neither  the  booted  and  spurred  signorl  who  cantered 
their  mounts  up  and  down,  inspecting  the  better 
nags,  nor  their  retinues  of  velveteen-clad  guards, 
whose  guns  slapped  about  on  their  backs  as  they  slid 
to  the  ground  to  Hft  a  foot  or  wrench  open  a  mouth, 
had  warmed  up  to  Silvestro's  enthusiasm. 

More  attractive  than  the  rather  commonplace 
horses  were  the  thousands  of  big  sleek  mules.  With 
their  handsome  "basti,"  their  gay  long-tasseled 
saddle-cloths  and  saddle-bags  decked  with  red  wool 
and  embroidered  with  scrolls  and  arabesques,  saints 
and  animals,  the  mules  were  the  stars  of  the  fair. 
The  rough-coated  colts  and  young  mules,  fifty  or  a 
hundred  to  the  bunch,  were  too  restless  to  visit ;  but 
the  ugly,  awkward  little  donkeys  submitted  to  be 
looked  at,  as  did  the  tall  red  cows  with  horns  a  yard 
long,  the  very  cattle  of  Helios  hunted  by  the  com- 
panions of  Ulysses.  On  the  outskirts  sulked  hud- 
dles of  sheep  with  noses  to  the  ground;  intruders 
they  felt  themselves  in  the  great  fair  of  the  "pelle 
rosse" — red-skinned  bovines  and  the  horse  kind. 

The  collars  of  the  bell-cows,  which  I  had  come  to 
see,  proved  sadly  crude  and  uninteresting;  though 
patience  found  me  a  few  carved  and  painted  in  the 
old  manner  with  saints  and  Madonnas,  double- 
headed  eagles,  bandits,  carabinieri  and  their  train. 

Two  girls  whose  orange-colored  kerchiefs  and 
huge  earrings  caught  my  eye  were  tending  a  cow 
as  big  as  an  ox  which  at  my  approach  turned  its 
neck  stiffly  in  a  tight  wooden  yoke  covered  with 


194  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

figures.  On  one  side  St.  George  in  red  spiked  a 
green  dragon,  on  top  was  a  crucifix  and  on  the  other 
side  a  swarm  of  beseeching  Souls  in  Purgatory. 

"How  are  you,  Excellency?"  asked  the  younger 
girl,  adding  in  Mulberry  Street  English,  "Wat-a 
you  do  'ere?"  Laughing,  she  hid  her  face  in  her 
apron. 

We  laughed  together  as  a  hot-air  balloon  in  the 
shape  of  a  horse  drifted  over  the  fairground  from 
the  heights  of  the  city.  There  followed  a  swollen, 
unwieldy  cow  and  a  menagerie  of  other  animals, 
some  of  which,  taking  fire,  blazed  merrily. 

As  the  air  grew  dusk  and  I  climbed  towards  the 
Stella,  cloaked  and  hooded  figures,  silhouetted 
against  the  sky  as  they  galloped  along  a  rise  of  the 
hill,  seemed  to  shift  the  scene  to  a  camp  of 
Bedouins. 

"What  would  your  Ladyship  like  for  supper?" 
was  my  landlady's  greeting. 

"What  is  there?"  I  retorted. 

"Bread,  wine  and  sleep." 

The  humorous  old  padrone  rested  her  head  on 
her  hand,  feigning  slumber. 

"Bread  and  wine,"  I  agreed;  "but  no  sleep  till 
after  S.  Silvestro's  procession." 

Doubling  a  sheet  over  a  greasy  pine  table,  she 
fetched  in  addition  to  bread  some  hard  sausage, 
very  salt,  and  a  plate  of  faviana,  green  beans. 

Before  I  had  eaten,  Aita  was  at  the  door  with 
Silvestro;  Aita  washed  and  dressed  in  white  and 


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TROINA  FAIR  195 

wearing  her  flower-wreathed  hat.  She  carried  a  doll, 
she  was  eating  "torone"  and  Silvestro  wanted 
money.  He  had  a  toothache,  he  said,  and  in  fair- 
time  no  dentist  would  look  at  him  for  less  than  ten 
francs. 

"Doll,"  teased  Aita ;  "my  doll."  She  twitched  my 
skirt  with  sticky  fingers,  holding  up  the  doll.  Of 
course  Silvestro  needed  money. 

Going  out  into  the  warm  darkness,  we  met  Aita's 
aunt  and  cousins  near  the  cathedral — the  title  lasts, 
though  the  Great  Count  himself  who  built  it  trans- 
ferred the  bishopric  to  Messina.  With  chairs  which 
the  party  carried  we  sat  blocking  the  street  in  com- 
fort until  in  the  distance  rose  frenzied  "evvivas." 
From  S.  Silvestro's  own  church  below  the  paese 
half  of  the  city  was  upon  us,  following  his  relics  to 
the  cathedral. 

With  flare  of  rockets  and  deafening  drumbeat 
there  approached  a  host  of  torches  lighting  up  the 
long  white  sacks  and  black  mantles  of  a  confra- 
ternita  that  followed.  Candles  flickered  over 
bronzed  faces  that  looked  out  from  under  turbans 
whose  white  flowing  ends  drooped  to  the  shoulders 
and  rolled  behind  the  back  into  a  queue.  Other 
drums  and  a  phalanx  of  torches  led  a  second  con- 
fraternita  with  red  mantles,  and  then  a  riot  of 
shouts  heralded  a  third  whose  color  was  blue.  Last 
of  all  passed  priests  and  friars  escorting  the  Euchar- 
ist and  the  silver  image  that  holds  a  bone  of  the 
saint's  skull.  As  the  torches  moved,  flaming,  up  the 


196  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

high  steps  of  the  cathedral,  rockets  flashed  skyward, 
and  from  stands  above  our  heads  there  broke  out 
crashing  music. 

Between  blare  and  bang  Aita  fretted,  and  her 
aunt  told  shivery  tales  of  S.  Silvestro's  tomb.  Sunk 
below  an  altar  of  his  church,  it  rises.  "Half  an 
inch,"  she  said,  "since  last  year.  Something  will 
happen !" 

And  something  happened.  Silvestro  said  that 
next  day  we  should  see  neither  an  "Intrillazzata" 
nor  a  Cavalcade. 

Though  he  is  but  a  second  class  thaumaturge, 
with  little  more  to  boast  than  that  he  healed  a  king's 
son  and  rode  his  stick  to  Catania  and  back  in  a  day, 
and  that  a  falcon  and  a  flame  revealed  his  burial 
place,  lost  for  centuries,  S.  Silvestro's  festa  has 
been  honored  by  spectacles  that  might  stir  the  jeal- 
ous wrath  of  many  a  greater  saint. 

He  had  a  miracle  play;  has  it  yet,  sometimes; 
and  against  hope  I  had  hoped  to  see  black-robed 
Lucifer  in  his  priest's  hat  and  the  angels  and  God 
himself  who  figure  in  the  "sacra  rappresentazione," 
now  legend,  now  Bible  story;  for  as  time  goes  on 
and  towns  spend  less  and  less  on  festas,  Troina's 
miracle  play,  seldom  put  on  paper — for  peasant 
poets  who  cannot  write  give  out  their  rhymes  by 
word  of  mouth  to  peasant  actors  who  cannot  read 
— may  soon  become  a  memory. 

If  the  Sindaco  is  generous  or  his  own  income 
permits,    S.    Silvestro    holds    a    Cavalcata,    when 


TROINA  FAIR  197 

Roger's  knights  spur  shining  steeds  through 
Roger's  Corso.  In  Scicli,  for  the  Madonna  of  the 
MiHtia  the  Great  Count  still  struggles,  festa  after 
festa,  with  the  Saracen;  and  so  at  Aidone.  But 
Troina,  Norman  capital,  celebrates  Norman  victory. 

In  Troina  Ruggiero  stood  that  hungry  siege 
when  he  and  his  newly  wedded  Eremberga  shared 
a  single  cloak.  Once  his  horse  was  killed  under 
him  when  he  had  sallied  from  the  gate ;  but,  swing- 
ing his  sword  in  gleaming  circles,  he  dragged  off 
bridle  and  saddle — so,  grown  old  and  garrulous,  he 
used  to  boast  to  worshiping  Malaterra — shoul- 
dered the  harness  and  hewed  a  bloody  way  back  to 
the  walls.  In  the  fight  above  Cerami  St.  George  on 
a  white  charger  scattered  with  his  gold-tipped  spear 
50,000  paynim,  and  the  Norman  handful,  trium- 
phant, gloried  in  the  miracle. 

And  so  for  S.  Silvestro,  who  saw  that  fighting, 
his  devotees,  when  there  is  money,  don  helm  and 
spear  like  those  of  the  warriors  painted  on  the  carts, 
and  in  guise  of  paladins  they  prance  and  curvet 
now  rising  in  their  stirrups,  now  leaning  from  the 
saddle,  to  divide  to  ladies  at  their  windows  and  to 
the  mob  the  flowers  and  confetti  carried  by  their 
squires — spoils  of  the  vanquished  dogs  of  Mussul- 
mans. 

"Quintals  of  sweets  it  takes,"  explained  Sil- 
vestro,   "Not  every  year  can  we  see  a  Cavalcade!" 

"In  the  old  days  they  gave  chickens,"  sighed 
Aita's  aunt. 


198  BY-PATHS  IN   SICILY 

That  night  when  braying  mules  and  trampling 
horses  murdered  sleep  I  vowed  to  ignore  next  year 
such  modern  things  as  miracle  play  or  strife  of 
Cross  and  Crescent,  and  to  reach  Troina  a  week  be- 
fore the  festa  to  see  an  ancient  function  whose 
roots  are  deep  so  that  it  fails  not — the  bringing  of 
the  laurel. 

When  Apollo  re-entered.  Delphi  after  he  had  killed 
Python  he  wore  laurel  plucked  in  Tempe  to  guard 
him  from  avenging  ghosts.  And  every  eighth  year 
thereafter  throughout  the  old  years  a  Delphian  lad 
burned  a  mimic  dragon's  den,  and  fled,  blood-guilty, 
to  Tempe  and  the  purifying  laurel,  bringing 
branches  home  with  pomp  and  music  before  the 
Pythian  games  to  crown  the  victors. 

And  every  spring  to-day  Troina  men  go  out  to 
fetch  the  laurel,  wandering  for  days,  for  there  is 
no  Tempe  near.  On  Sunday  two  weeks  before  the 
festa  hundreds  who  went  on  foot  return  in  pro- 
cession, crowned  with  the  sacred  leaves.  Seven  days 
later  the  hundreds  who  went  on  horseback  clatter 
home,  firing  guns  as  they  approach  to  call  Troina 
to  the  parapets.  Gay  with  boughs  and  ribbon,  the 
Cavalcata  d'Addauru,  spurring  to  the  cathedral, 
casts  sprigs  of  laurel  at  it,  keeping  the  rest,  blessed 
and  blessing,  throughout  the  year. 

Next  morning  the  "A-a-a-h!  A-a-a-h!"  of  don- 
key boys  waked  me  before  sunrise.  In  the  court- 
yard under  my  window  horses  were  being  put  to  an 
ante-diluvian  stage  named  in  tall  letters  "Automo- 


TROINA  FAIR  199 

bile."  Slipping  out  of  doors  behind  pattering  asses 
buried  to  the  ears  in  hay,  I  followed  to  the  fair 
ground. 

The  encampment  on  the  plain  looked  chill  and 
sluggish.  The  black  masses  of  cattle  chewed  in- 
differently at  the  red-flowered  sudda  in  their  forage. 
The  men  stood  in  silent  groups,  rigid,  motionless. 
Each  had  his  "scappularu"  buttoned  across  his 
chest,  or  one  end  of  the  long  cape  was  flung  over 
the  opposite  shoulder.  Hoods  were  pulled  forward 
over  dark  wild  faces.  Men  of  tougher  fiber  they 
looked  than  the  people  of  towns. 

Breakfast  was  in  progress.  Against  heaps  of 
saddles  sat  cowherds  and  horseboys,  the  skin  san- 
dals that  covered  their  feet  sticking  out  straight  in 
front  of  them,  hacking  chunks  of  bread  with  their 
American  knives  from  the  round  loaves  which  they 
pulled,  together  with  cheese  and  onions,  from  their 
saddlebags,  and  drinking  from  wooden  bottles 
hooped  like  casks. 

I  found  one  of  my  cowgirls  of  the  day  before 
muffled  in  a  black  shawl,  an  end  of  which  was 
drawn  across  her  mouth.  An  old  woman  had  joined 
her,  and  the  two,  cushioned  on  mounds  of  clover, 
were  munching  bread.  Presently  the  other  sister  ap- 
peared balancing  a  tin  of  water  on  her  head,  lead- 
ing the  big  cow  at  the  end  of  a  rope  and  knitting. 

The  scene  was  as  yesterday,  the  light  brilliant 
upon  the  wonderful  circle  of  mountains  presaging 
heat.    Boys  were  passing  up  and  down  with  water 


200  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

flasks;  animals  drank  at  the  great  fountain.  The 
women  with  cows  wore  enormous  earrings  and 
faded  gowns  of  print.  The  sheep  huddled  together, 
faces  toward  the  ground. 

At  eleven  o'clock  we  lunch  on  bread,  eggs  and 
wine,  and  start.  Aita's  white  dress  is  soiled,  but  she 
still  has  the  medal,  Silvestro,  who  has  paid  five  lire 
to  have  his  offending  tooth  drawn,  is  tired  and 
cross.  The  fair  in  the  street  is  now  lively;  sheep 
are  roasting;  unidentifiable  meats  are  frying;  there 
is  noisy  sale  of  small  necessaries,  sickles,  sparta 
grass  ropes,  three-tined  hay-forks,  pots,  pans  and 
the  like,  A  relative  of  Silvestro  going  down  to 
Linguaglossa  ambles  beside  us  on  muleback;  later 
he  is  to  leave  his  mule  at  home  and  ride  with  us. 
We  are  all  sleepy,  even  the  horses;  but  Silvestro's 
young  relative  scrutinizes  every  bunch  of  cows  or 
flock  of  sheep  we  pass,  and  asks  what  they  cost  at 
the  fair. 

White,  winding,  shadeless  road;  browned  fields; 
brown,  bare  mountain  slopes,  the  farther  hills  in 
summer  haze — down  again  to  Fiume  di  Troina, 
which  helps  make  the  Simeto;  it  is  nearly  three 
o'clock  when  we  make  the  beetling  crag  of  Cesaro, 
our  first  goal,  where  we  eat  again  bread,  eggs  and 
a  handful  of  green  fave,  washed  down  with  wine, 
and  are  off. 

Near  a  country  house  the  family — two  boys, 
three  or  four  girls  and  the  mother — are  furbishing 
up  a  "cona"  of  San  Calogero  for  his  festa,  which 


TROINA  FAIR  201 

is  due  at  Cesaro,  June  18,  a  great  fair.  The  shrine 
is  of  the  usual  wayside  sort,  a  miniature  chapel  with 
cross  on  top,  figure  of  the  saint  in  a  niche  and  a  little 
shelf  for  oil  and  flowers.  The  girls  have  white- 
washed it  inside  and  out,  and  are  now  putting  on 
stenciled  decorations.  At  each  side  of  the  front 
wall  a  girl  has  put  a  yellow  flower  pot  with  yellow 
plant;  she  is  adding  a  large  full-blown  blue  flower. 
Her  stencil  pattern  is  cut  out  of  brown  paper;  she 
holds  it  with  one  hand  against  the  white  wall  and 
dabs  paint  with  the  other.  It  takes  her  only  a  min- 
ute or  two  to  blue-flower  both  walls.  Silvestro 
asks  if  they  light  up  the  saint  all  the  year  round, 
and  they  reply,  only  at  the  time  of  the  festa.  He 
tells  them  that  if  they  leave  Calogero  in  the  dark 
all  the  year  except  at  festa  they  cannot  expect  him 
to  do  much  for  them. 

We  chat  with  the  girls  while  the  boys  climb  up 
into  the  fields  above  to  cut  artichokes  for  us.  Sil- 
vestro haggles  to  get  four  for  a  soldo,  but  he  has 
to  give  a  trifle  extra. 

Looking  back  on  the  way  to  Randazzo,  Tro- 
ina's  low  black  houses  in  the  distance  seem  like  nests 
of  birds  or  the  lair  of  beasts  of  prey.  The  men  talk 
about  animals  while  Aita  sleeps,  nodding  when  her 
father  scolds  her  because  she  drops  her  sweets,  or 
doesn't  blow  her  nose  often  enough,  or  will  not 
wear  her  hat.  We  pass  a  big  plantation  of  f  ave  and 
Silvestro  says  we  can  gather  there,  as  it  belongs  to 
a  cousin,  and  Aita  wakes  up  to  eat. 


202  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

There  is  a  fine  view  of  Randazzo  as  we  at  last 
draw  near,  with  Etna  in  the  evening  light  vast  and 
serene;  and  as  we  plunge  into  the  streets  of  the 
town  we  find  them  gayer  than  is  their  wont,  the 
long  main  street  especially  thronged  for  the  pro- 
cession of  I'Annunziata,  the  balcony  flower  pots 
gay  with  Bermuda  lilies,  roses  and  bright  gera- 
niums. So,  consoled  for  the  gayeties  we  had  cut 
short  at  Troina,  we  look  for  a  little  at  the  proces- 
sion, the  torches,  the  robes  of  the  confraternita,  the 
Madonna  and  the  angel — a  grim,  dark  face  under 
a  white  head-cloth — until  sleep  has  its  will  of  the 
weary. 


CHAPTER  III 
Saint  Philip  the  Black 

The  expulsion  of  demons  from  the  bodies  of  those  unhappy 
persons  whom  they  had  been  permitted  to  torment  was 
considered  as  a  signal  though  ordinary  triumph  of  religion, 
and  is  repeatedly  alleged  by  the  ancient  apologists  as  the 
most  convincing  proof  of  the  truth  of  Christianity.  The 
awful  ceremony  was  usually  performed  in  a  public  manner 
and  in  the  presence  of  a  great  number  of  spectators. — Gib- 
bon's "Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire." 

Calatabiano  means  "Citadel  of  Bian,"  and  to 
this  day  the  gray  little  town  beside  the  Alcantara 
huddles  under  the  ruins  of  the  Arab  chief's  strong- 
hold. High  on  the  castle  hill  near  the  fort's  outer 
wall  stands  the  small  mediaeval  church  of  Bian's 
successor  in  the  protectorate  of  the  neighborhood, 
San  Filippo  the  Black,  the  great  exorcist  of  Sicily. 

As  well  ask  who  was  the  forgotten  Bian  as  who 
was  S.  Philip  the  Black.  His  color  tells  nothing. 
San  Pancrazio  of  Taormina,  San  Calogero  of  Gir- 
genti  and  the  Madonna  of  Tindaro  are  black.  In 
Sicily,  as  in  other  Catholic  regions  of  Europe,  black 
Christs  and  black  Virgins  have  succeeded  to  black 
Isis  and  the  black  Venus  of  Corinth. 

In  Calatabiano  San  Filippo  is  called  "the  Syrian." 
203 


204  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

Omodei,  who  lived  in  Castiglione  on  Etna  In  the 
sixteenth  century,  says  that  he  came  from  Constan- 
tinople into  Sicily  in  the  reign  of  the  Emperor  Arca- 
diiis,  and  drove  out  the  demons  that  infested  the 
country.  Agira,  where  he  died,  and  Calatabiano 
have  been  centers  of  devotion  to  him  for  many  hun- 
dreds of  years ;  and  in  other  towns  of  Eastern  Sicily 
he  is  famed  as  a  liberator  of  the  "possessed"  and 
for  the  frenzy  of  his  processions. 

It  is  not  more  than  four  or  five  years,  for  In- 
stance, since  Sicilians  in  the  United  States  sent 
money  for  a  new  statue  of  San  Filippo  to  their 
home  in  the  mountain  village  of  Limina,  where  the 
old  one  had  been  broken  by  many  falls.  At  Limina, 
when  the  saint  goes  out  in  yearly  procession,  the 
contadini  who  carry  the  beams  at  one  end  of  his 
vara,  acting  not  of  their  own  will  but  as  automatons 
under  his  control,  push  and  pull  so  madly  against 
the  tradesmen  who  carry  the  beams  at  the  other  end 
that  these  battering  rams  are  hurled  against  trees 
and  walls,  until  not  infrequently  vara  and  saint  go 
to  the  ground.  If  in  the  tug  of  war  an  outer  stair- 
way or  a  projecting  balcony  that  encumbers  the 
street  is  demolished,  or  the  growing  crops  of  an 
unpopular  landlord  are  trampled,  this  was  San 
Filippo's  will ;  his  bearers  could  not  help  themselves. 

The  new  American  statue  remains  discreetly  In 
the  church.  It  is  still  the  scarred  veteran  that  in- 
spires the  Dionisiac  madness  of  the  procession. 

At  Calatabiano  the  feature  of  San  Filippo's  pro- 


SAINT  PHILIP  THE  BLACK  205 

cession  is  speed.  The  "traditional,  most  rapid, 
miraculous  descent  of  the  simulacrum  of  the  saint 
from  the  castle  hill  in  less  than  five  minutes" — to 
quote  from  a  notice  posted  annually  in  near-by  vil- 
lages— draws  thousands  of  spectators. 

Yet  at  noon  of  a  hot,  still  eighteenth  day  of  May 
Calatabiano  was  drowsing  so  heavily  that  if  I  had 
not  seen  a  carter  bargaining  with  a  cobbler  for  four 
pairs  of  children's  white  shoes,  I  might  have  thought 
I  had  mistaken  the  date  of  the  festa.  It  is  true  the 
descent  was  not  to  take  place  until  six  o'clock  in 
the  evening. 

As  I  climbed  the  narrow  way  that  leads  between 
gray  wasps'  nests  of  houses  plastered  against  the 
hill  to  the  mountain  path,  four  children  picked 
themselves  up  from  the  powdery  soil  and  followed. 
There  was  Nunziata,  a  tot  in  a  dusty  blue  dress 
that  came  to  her  heels.  From  broken  stone  to  broken 
stone  of  the  precipitous  ascent  she  struggled  on, 
though  at  times  a  bobbing  head  tied  up  in  an  orange- 
colored  kerchief  was  all  that  we  saw  of  her.  There 
were  Saria  and  Cicciu,  wiry  creatures,  yellow  with 
malaria,  who  darted  ahead  in  chase  of  lizards  or 
for  the  cautious  gathering  of  prickly  wild  arti- 
chokes. And  there  was  half-blind  Ninu,  a  waif  and 
a  beggar,  who  paused  now  and  then  at  one  of  the 
rudely  painted  stations  of  the  cross  to  pass  his  hands 
over  the  pike  of  a  soldier  or  the  nails  in  a  basket 
carried  by  one  of  the  Jews. 

The  way  was  deserted,  except  for  the  bees  in  the 


2o6  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

yellow  blossoms  of  the  cacti,  until  half-way  up  we 
came  to  the  solitary  church  of  the  Madonna  del 
Carmine,  where  strong  brown  women  were  getting 
in  the  ecclesiastical  hay.  "Time  of  almonds,"  they 
said  when  I  asked  the  date  of  the  Madonna's  f  esta ; 
"in  the  time  of  ripe  almonds."  It  seemed,  that 
sleepy  afternoon,  a  definite  enough  reply. 

And  so  we  came  to  San  Filippo's  mountain 
chapel.  Here  a  couple  of  men  were  planting  rough 
stone  mortars  beside  the  path,  and  digging  out  from 
them  the  refuse  of  old  charges  of  powder.  No  one 
else  was  to  be  seen. 

"Vossia,  can  you  read?"  asked  Saria,  as  we 
turned  to  the  gray  little  church  balanced  preca- 
riously on  a  shelf  of  the  hillside. 

Her  tone  was  one  of  simple  inquiry,  but  no 
sooner  had  I  said  "yes"  than  Ninu  and  Cicciu 
abandoned  the  mortar  men,  though  these  had  ar- 
rived at  the  stage  of  loading  in  fresh  charges,  and 
cried  out  with  her  in  chorus,  "Can  you  read  this?" 
pointing  eager  fingers  towards  a  weather-beaten 
Greek  inscription  over  the  old  Byzantine-Norman 
doorway. 

Without  waiting  for  an  answer,  they  poured  out 
the  marvel  with  which  they  were  bursting:  Nobody 
could  read  that  writing!  "Not  even  the  king!"  said 
Cicciu.  Saria  giggled  a  little  doubtfully  at  this  as- 
sertion of  the  king's  Incapacity,  but  the  children 
agreed  that  the  letters  made  an  incantation.  If  only 
I  could  understand  it  and  we  could  come  to  the 


SAINT  PHILIP  THE  BLACK  207 

church  again  together  on  Christmas  eve  and  repeat 
the  charm  aloud,  at  midnight  precisely,  three  times 
without  missing  a  word,  the  mountain  would  open 
and  show  us  heaps  and  heaps  of  gold. 

"We  could  take  as  much  as  we  wanted,"  said 
Saria,  cutting  away  the  prickles  with  Ninu's  broken 
knife  from  the  artichoke  she  was  eating. 

But  through  the  open  doorway  we  caught  sight 
of  something  more  entrancing  even  than  enchanted 
treasure.  San  Filippo's  vara  was  in  plain  sight.  The 
church  was  not  empty.   We  hurried  inside. 

It  was  still  early  afternoon.  Aside  from  a  droop- 
ing woman  who  sat,  coughing  and  exhausted,  sur- 
rounded by  two  or  three  villagers,  the  sacristan 
and  his  helpers  had  the  place  to  themselves.  A  dusty 
closet  above  the  high  altar  was  open  and  the  half- 
length  figure  of  the  patron  saint  of  Calatabiano 
had  just  been  taken  down. 

San  Filippo  is  not  a  pink-cheeked  boy  doll  like 
Sant'  Alfio.  He  is  ebon  black;  his  beard  is  forked 
and  the  whites  of  his  fiery  eyes  give  him  such  a  fear- 
some look  that  Nunziata  and  even  Saria  shrank 
when  they  saw  his  halo  unscrewed  and  the  unwieldy 
wooden  image  brought  towards  the  vara  which  had 
been  placed  opposite  the  door. 

The  conveyance  on  which  a  saint  is  taken  out  of 
his  church  in  procession  varies  from  a  simple  bar- 
row to  the  towering  car  of  Santa  Rosalia  of  Pa- 
lermo. San  Filippo's  vara  is  a  substantial  platform, 
standing  on  legs  and  covered  by  a  standing  top  in 


2o8  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

tarnished  gilding.  It  is  carried  on  the  shoulders  of 
some  thirty  men  by  means  of  beams  run  through 
sockets  below  its  floor,  projecting  in  front  and 
behind. 

When  San  Filippo  had  been  dusted  and  screwed 
to  his  pedestal  under  the  canopy,  the  sacristan 
brought  out  his  holiday  vestments.  San  Filippo's 
toilet  is  not  elaborate  like  that  of  a  woman  saint — 
Sant'  Agata  of  Catania  wears  more  jewels  than  did 
Isis — but  the  taking  off  of  his  rusty  every-day 
chasuble  and  the  putting  on  of  another  shining  with 
gold  embroidery,  the  changing  of  his  stole  and 
maniple  and  the  refitting  of  his  silver  halo  occupied 
some  time. 

Before  the  process  was  complete  people  had  be- 
gun to  arrive,  bringing  bunches  of  flowers  and 
young  wheat — first  fruits — which  were  tied  with 
red  ribbons  to  the  vara.  One  or  two  watches,  a 
bracelet  and  some  rings  were  hung  to  the  saint's  up- 
lifted hand.  A  woman  fastened  a  hen  with  red  rags 
to  a  column,  where  it  dropped  as  forlorn  as  the  one 
goose  Julian  the  Apostate  saw  offered  to  the  Apollo 
of  Daphne  in  place  of  hecatombs  of  fat  oxen.  The 
spikes  that  fenced  the  four  sides  of  the  vara  began 
to  blaze  with  candles.  A  weeping  girl  who  had 
climbed  the  hill  in  stockinged  feet  brought  a  wax 
torch  taller  than  herself. 

Next  to  the  vara  the  forlorn  woman  I  had  seen 
on  entering  the  church  was  the  center  of  interest. 
The  villagers  said  she  came  from  Messina,  and  that 


SAINT  PHILIP  THE  BLACK  209 

since  the  hour  when  she  was  taken  from  under  the 
ruins  of  her  house  after  the  great  earthquake  she 
had  been  unable  to  speak  until  that  day.  Hour  after 
hour  in  the  bare  little  church  she  had  mutely  im- 
plored San  Filippo,  and  at  last  had  come  the  sign  of 
liberation:  All  her  clothes  had  fallen  from  her,  so 
that  "to  see  her  was  a  scandal."  She  had  brought 
new  clothes  in  faith,  and  the  by-standers  had  re- 
clothed  her  piously.  Now  she  could  speak.  The 
dumb  demon  had  been  expelled.  In  gratitude  for 
her  healing  she  had  licked  crosses  with  her  tongue 
upon  the  pavement  three  times  across  the  floor. 

In  proof  of  this  first  miracle  of  the  festa  the  peo- 
ple showed  me  hanging  in  a  side  chapel,  the  faded 
shawl  and  skirt  and  the  broken  shoes  she  had  ded- 
icated. Ghastly  white,  the  poor  soul  affirmed,  'Tt 
is  true,  Signura," 

Men  as  well  as  women  were  coming  up  the  path, 
among  them  young  contadini  in  whose  holiday  at- 
tire red  neckties  flamed  conspicuous.  Two  or  three 
of  the  children  were  recognized  as  of  those  to  be 
honored  by  carrying  San  Filippo. 

We  climbed  to  Bian's  ruined  castle.  The  children 
found  the  one  piombatoio  that  remained  above  the 
arched  entrance,  and  put  it  to  its  original  use,  hurl- 
ing down  stones.  The  nearer  hill  slopes  were 
planted  sparsely  with  olives  and  almonds  and 
glowed  with  yellow  broom.  To  the  South  heaved 
up  the  bulk  of  Etna,  still  snow-crowned,  its  lower 
slopes  dreaming  under  blue  veils  of  summer  haze. 


2IO  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

To  the  West  lay  the  valley  of  the  Alcantara,  whose 
waters  have  been  bloodied  age  after  age  by  the 
struggles  of  race  after  race — Sicanians,  Siculians, 
Greeks,  Carthagenians,  Mamertines,  Byzantines, 
Arabs,  Normans,  Spaniards,  French  and  Germans. 
To  the  North  rose  the  mountains  of  Taormina,  and 
to  the  East  the  blue  and  silver  plains  of  the  sea. 

While  we  lingered  in  that  rapture  of  light,  Saria 
spied  a  movement  below. 

"Come  on!"  she  cried.   "Let  us  go!" 

San  Filippo  must  be  making  ready  for  his  exit, 
for  people  were  swarming  out  of  the  church  and 
scurrying  down  the  broken  path  to  avoid  the  rush 
of  his  bearers.  We  scrambled  down  ourselves,  and 
mid- way  between  church  and  village  found  half 
the  countryside  massed  on  the  abrupt  slopes  above 
the  dry  torrent  bed  down  which  for  half  his  course 
the  wild  ^  lack  saint  must  come.  It  had  taken  us  per- 
haps jfifteen  minutes  to  reach  a  place  of  vantage. 
Cicciu  and  Saria  climbed  a  rock  above  the  heads  of 
the  impatient  throng  and  pulled  the  rest  of  us  up 
beside  them.  Still  there  was  no  sign  from  above; 
but  the  wait  was  not  long.  At  six  o'clock  exactly 
the  mortars  crashed  their  signal.  "Now!"  called 
eager  voices.    "Now!" 

A  minute  later  roared  the  multitude!  "They're 
coming !" 

The  vara  with  its  thirty  bearers  came  lurching 
towards  us,  past  us,  down  into  the  valley,  reeling, 
rocking,  hurling  itself  in  flying  leaps,  seeming  to 


SAINT  PHILIP  THE  BLACK  211 

hit  the  earth  and  rise  again,  a  tremendous  human 
projectile. 

There  was  a  gasping  silence;  then  "Viva  San 
Pilippu!"  echoed  from  every  rock  of  the  mountain. 
Once  again  the  "traditional,  most  rapid,  miraculous 
descent"  of  the  cannon-ball  saint  had  been  made  in 
less  than  five  minutes.  At  a  guess,  the  precipitous 
descent  is  three-quarters  of  a  mile. 

"Fine!  Eh,  Vossia?"  asked  Cicciu.  "Great! 
Wasn't  it?" 

"A  miracle!"  I  answered.  If  they  reach  the  foot 
alive,  the  greatest  miracle  San  Filippo  ever  per- 
formed ! 

We  hurried  with  the  crowds  to  the  bottom  of  the 
hill,  where  priests,  banners  and  torches  had  awaited 
the  vara.  The  triumphal  progress  of  San  Filippo 
through  the  village  was  made  with  slow  pomp,  with 
bands  of  music  blowing  horns  and  clashing  cym- 
bals, with  children  strewing  the  way  with  golden 
broom  flowers  and  the  red  petals  of  geraniums, 
with  confraternita  in  white  sacks,  with  priests  in 
golden  vestments.  The  setting  sun  gilded  the  vara 
as  it  moved  towards  the  Matrice,  followed  by  the 
greater  part  of  the  population. 

From  the  door  of  the  mother  church  the  vara 
sprang  forward  with  great  leaps  to  the  altar  and 
then  back  to  a  place  in  the  rear,  where  the  brown 
young  peasants  who  had  vindicated  the  saint's 
prowess  and  their  own  dropped  into  chairs,  finger- 
ing bruised  shoulders  where  the  vara  beams  had 


212  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

rested,  panting,  wiping  away  the  sweat  that  rolled 
from  their  foreheads.  Five  had  fallen  in  mid- 
course.   Broken  ribs  are  not  uncommon. 

The  vara  meanwhile  was  taken  by  assault.  Men 
clung  to  its  columns  kissing  the  saint  with  frenzy. 
Parents  lifted  children  to  kiss  him.  Women  kissed 
their  fingers  that  had  touched  his  vestments.  Cicciu 
and  Saria  swarmed  up  on  to  the  platform  and 
reached  down  towards  Nunziata. 

"Take  me !  Take  me !"  cried  the  baby,  twitching 
my  skirts  and  speaking  for  the  first  time  that  after- 
noon. I  picked  her  up,  but  too  late.  Men  were  at 
work  again,  unscrewing  San  Filippo's  halo. 

From  the  vara  the  black  saint  was  carried  to  the 
main  altar  and  set  high  above  us.  Below  him 
burned  candles  rank  on  rank.  In  the  dim  church 
gleamed  and  swayed  tinsel  hangings  of  many 
colors.    At  the  chancel  rail  blazed  huge  wax  torches. 

Next  morning  Calatabiano  awoke  to  the  boom 
of  cannon,  the  clangor  of  bells  and  the  drums  and 
brass  of  parading  bands.  Even  before  sunrise,  on 
foot,  muleback,  in  high  two-wheeled  carts,  by  early 
trains,  the  countryside  flocked  to  the  fair  that  ac- 
companies every  festa,  until  by  nine  o'clock  the 
piazza  in  front  of  the  Matrice  and  the  narrow 
streets  adjoining,  the  center  of  a  village  of  less  than 
5000  inhabitants,  were  packed  with  many  times  that 
number  of  people. 

The  day  proved  hot,  and  the  sellers  of  rainbow- 


SAINT  PHILIP  THE  BLACK  213 

hued  ices  rent  the  air  with  their  calls:  "Like  snow! 
Like  snow!  One  cent  each!  Cool  as  snow!" 

From  the  copper  pans  where  chick  peas  were 
popping  came  the  return  challenge  of  the  ciceri  men. 
"Hot!  All  hot!  Hot  peas  here!  Taste!  Come  and 
taste!  He  who  has  money  let  him  eat!  Hot!  All 
hot!" 

From  the  donkey  fair  beyond  the  bridge  that 
crosses  the  Torrente  Sincona  rose  the  braying  of 
asses  whose  mouths  were  wrenched  open  by  pros- 
pective buyers  and  of  mules  galloped  furiously  to 
show  their  paces. 

Gay  carts  were  almost  as  numerous  as  at  the  f  esta 
of  Sant'  Alfio.  Mule  saddles  stuffed  with  straw 
and  covered  with  coarse  linen  were  heaped  in  great 
piles,  each  bastu  flaming  with  red  flannel  scrolls, 
figures  of  men  and  animals  and  signs  against  the 
evil  eye. 

Sickles,  broad  straw  hats  and  stacks  of  rushes 
spoke  of  haying  time,  of  the  tying  up  of  vines  and 
of  the  nearness  of  the  grain  harvest. 

In  the  church  mass  succeeded  mass.  At  the  be- 
ginning of  each  function  the  sacristan,  armed  with 
a  drum,  beat  a  tattoo  at  the  door  in  competition 
with  the  horn  that  tooted  at  one  side  of  the  steps 
over  a  barrow-load  of  bright  summer  muslins — 
"Five  cents  a  yard,  women!" — and  the  shouts  that 
rose  at  the  other  side  over  the  game  of  feeding  the 
dragon.  The  dragon  was  tall  and  stood  on  his  tail. 
One  tucked  into  his  mouth  a  ball  with  flattened 


214  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

numbered  sides;  betting,  as  it  squirmed  down 
through  his  red  and  yellow  contortions,  on  which 
face  it  would  fall  at  the  bottom. 

The  church  when  I  entered  was  a  sea  of  many- 
colored  kerchiefs  in  tempest.  San  Filippo's  empty 
vara,  where  yesterday's  flowers  were  fading,  stood 
forsaken,  while  men  and  women  elbowed  towards 
a  recess  at  the  right  of  the  main  altar  from  which 
came  shrieks  and  shrill  laughter.  The  hysteric  and 
insane  who  had  been  brought  to  the  saint  for  the 
casting  out  of  the  evil  spirits  that  possessed  them 
had  been  present  in  the  church  during  the  earlier 
masses;  but  now  before  high  mass  they  were  being 
removed. 

When  the  sacristy  door  had  shut  behind  them 
and  quiet  was  restored  I  found  sitting  beside  me 
two  dainty  little  girls  who  radiated  such  bliss  that 
I  hinted  how  "simpatici"  I  thought  their  new  blue 
dresses.  They  preened  themselves,  spreading  out 
pink  scarfs  and  turning  up  the  toes  of  white  shoes; 
and  presently,  while  San  Filippo  glared  in  the 
candle  light  and  the  lean  sacristan  wormed  his  per- 
sistent way  between  close-set  rows  of  chairs  in  quest 
of  his  lawful  soldi,  they  began  to  chatter  about 
"Babbu"  who  had  sent  the  money  for  all  these 
pretty  things.  Perhaps  I  had  bought  meat  of  Babbu, 
since  I  was  "  'Murricana"  and  he  a  butcher  in  New 
York.  Babbu  had  been  gone  seven  years,  but  he 
never  forgot  new  dresses  or  wax  for  the  day  of 
San  Filippo. 


SAINT  PHILIP  THE  BLACK  215 

They  pointed  out  to  me  Mamma's  wax  torch 
among  the  many  blazing  at  the  rail.  More  than  a 
meter  tall  it  was,  and  trimmed  with  roses  and  red 
ribbons.  After  mass  they  would  help  her  carry  it 
home,  to  light  in  case  of  illness.  The  flowers,  too, 
they  would  save  to  lay  on  the  bed  of  a  sick  person. 
Next  May,  perhaps.  Mamma  would  melt  on  more 
wax  to  the  torch  and  lengthen  it  to  offer  again. 

"Mamma,"  who  sat  beyond  the  children,  looked 
so  uneasy  and  the  sacristy  door  remained  so  ob- 
stinately shut  that  I  abandoned  mass  in  quest  of 
luncheon.  The  little  shops  turned  for  the  day  into 
eating-houses  put  out  hard  boiled  eggs,  sheep's-milk 
cheese  and  round  brown  loaves  of  bread  on  small 
stands  as  signs.  The  one  table  was  occupied  in  the 
room  down  into  which  I  ventured — its  floor  of 
broken  bricks  was  below  ground  level ;  but  the  stout 
padrona,  whose  big  hoops  of  earrings  swung  with 
the  vigor  of  her  movements,  set  a  plate  for  me  on 
the  shelf  of  her  American  sewing  machine. 
At  the  other  end  of  it  seated  himself  an  old  "hair- 
foot"  wearing  the  homespun  and  the  hairy  sandals 
of  the  mountains.  Setting  down  his  stick,  engraved 
by  a  patient  knife  with  men  on  horseback  and  stiff 
be-aproned  ladies,  he  pulled  out  a  lump  of  bread 
and  called  for  two  soldi  worth  of  wine. 

Service  was  rapid,  for  just  inside  the  street  door, 
not  three  steps  from  the  table,  stood  the  cookstove. 
Once  it  had  been  a  petroleum  tin;  but  wires  run 
through  its  middle  made  a  fire  rack,  a  vent  had 


2i6  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

been  cut  below;  and,  mounted  on  the  box  in  which 
it  had  traveled  from  Texas,  it  seemed  on  terms  of 
old  friendship  with  the  terra  cotta  cooking  pot 
where  simmered  a  stew  of  kid  and  peas. 

At  the  other  side  of  the  door  stood  the  family 
bed,  the  mattress  of  which,  rolled  up  for  the  day, 
left  half  the  length  of  three  wide  planks  as  a  side- 
board for  bread,  lettuce,  plates  and  other  nec- 
essaries. 

The  short  brown  men  at  the  main  table,  who 
might  have  been  itinerant  venders — the  gypsy  folk 
who  gather  at  every  fair — had  the  squinting  eyes, 
the  deeply  lined  faces  and  the  faded  dust-gray 
clothes  of  men  who  live  under  a  powerful  sun.  They 
ate  fast  and  much,  swallowing  wine  from  the  carafe 
and  haggling  over  every  soldo. 

"Eat  like  Christians  and  pay  like  Christians  !'*  ad- 
monished the  padrona,  not  once  but  often;  for 
when  the  first  were  gone  there  came  others,  and  yet 
others  like  them,  so  that  the  padrona  went  to  mar- 
ket, bringing  back  yards  of  white  butcher's  waste 
to  follow  the  kid  into  the  pot  for  a  stew  of  tripe  and 
entrails. 

Luncheon  over,  exit  f^om  the  shop  was  blocked 
for  a  time  by  the  crowds  that  gathered  about  a 
strolling  auctioneer  who  set  goggles  on  the  eyes  of 
every  purchaser  to  enable  him  the  better  to  admire 
his  bargain. 

The  streets  were  as  gay  as  the  shifting  scenes 
of  a  kaleidoscope  with  the  orange,  blue,  green  and 


SAINT  PHILIP  THE  BLACK  217 

red  that  blossomed  together  in  the  dresses  of  the 
dark,  oval-faced  women  as  naturally  as  flowers  in 
gardens. 

In  the  piazza  "La  Sonnambula"  was  heralded  by 
the  tooting  horn  and  raucous  voice  of  her  exploiter 
as  "Paula  the  privileged,  born  at  midnight  before 
the  day  of  San  Paulo!  Paula  who  has  a  spider 
under  her  tongue !  Paula  who  cannot  mistake !  Paula 
who  sees  your  past,  present  and  future !" 

Paula,  who  was  a  girl  just  entering  her  teens, 
slept  to  order  for  two  soldi  wherever  she  happened 
to  be  standing. 

On  the  steps  of  the  church,  blinder  than  the  day 
before,  blind  Ninu  was  begging.  Cicciu,  who  led 
him,  interrupted  his  cry  of  "BHnd!  A  poor  blind 
boy!  Charity  for  the  dear  sake  of  the  Madonna!" 
to  greet  me  with  a  gleeful,  "What  a  crowd, 
Signura !" 

In  the  dim  cool  church  there  were  not  a  hundred 
people;  but  I  had  not  sat  long  in  the  restful  quiet 
before  there  came  a  stir  at  the  door  of  the  sacristy. 
The  "spiritati,"  whom  people  oftener  call  "li  spirdi." 
were  coming  back  to  San  Filippo. 

In  other  years,  when  the  last  mass  had  been  said 
and  the  curious  crowds  were  scattering,  I  have 
seen  "li  spirdi"  and  the  old  women  who  are,  as  in 
all  time  they  have  been,  specialists  in  exorcism  take 
possession  of  the  church.  I  have  seen  the  coaxings, 
the  threatenings  and  the  physical  violence  which  are 
supposed  to  influence  evil  spirits,  going  forward  in 


2i3  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

half  a  dozen  places  at  once;  before  the  altar,  beside 
the  vara,  wherever  the  various  groups  of  exorcists 
and  their  patients  might  find  themselves.  But  this 
afternoon  the  manner  was  different. 

Marshaled  by  priests  and  sacristan,  a  little  pro- 
cession moved  decorously  across  the  church,  paus- 
ing to  bend  the  knee  before  the  altar,  then  continu- 
ing towards  the  recess  which  the  "possessed"  had 
occupied  in  the  morning.  Across  the  mouth  of  an 
open  chapel  a  fence  of  benches  had  been  drawn; 
but  before  the  group  had  passed  behind  the  bar- 
rier a  disheveled  woman,  breaking  away  from  her 
conductors,  stumbled  uncertainly  through  the 
church  an  instant,  then  ran  toward  the  nearest  door. 
There  was  a  glimpse  of  a  heavy,  sullen  face,  of 
rough  hair  and  a  dirty  white  dress,  then  up  came 
the  sacristan  and  a  hurrying  swarm  of  people. 

"Ugly  devil!"  shrieked  the  guardian  old  woman 
who  retook  the  distracted  creature  in  charge.  "You 
will  not  kiss  the  saint?  Birbante!  You  will  not 
speak?   You  would  run  away? 

"Kiss  San  FiHppu!"  she  cajoled,  changing  tone. 
"Shout  'Viva  San  Filippu!'  My  joy!  My  jewel!  My 
heart !  Pray !  Pray  with  all  your  soul !  Kiss  San 
Filippu!"  she  held  up  a  penny  icon. 

To  kiss  the  figura  of  the  saint  and  to  shout  vivas 
are  a  sine  qua  non  of  exorcism.  I 

The  woman  jerked  away  her  head.  She  would 
not  kiss  the  picture.  She  would  not  look  at  it.  The 
crone  became  a  fury.   Taking  the  younger  woman 


SAINT  PHILIP  THE  BLACK  219 

by  the  shoulders,  she  shook  her,  screeching,  "Ugly 
devil!  Kiss  San  Filippu!  Cry  'Viva  San  FilippuT 
Ugly  one!" 

The  people  swarmed  close  like  bees,  weeping 
aloud,  begging  the  woman  to  kiss  the  saint,  catch- 
ing her  by  the  arms,  by  the  dress,  imploring  her  to 
cry  "Viva  San  Filippu !"  The  old  woman  continued 
to  shake  her,  again  pleading,  "My  love,  my  treasure, 
kiss  San  Filippu!   Kiss  the  saint!" 

The  woman's  hair  tumbled  over  her  shoulders 
and  her  shawl  fell  to  the  floor.  She  would  not  kiss 
the  figura  and  she  would  not  speak;  but  after  a 
little  she  allowed  herself  to  be  led,  scowling,  back 
to  the  chapel. 

Here,  behind  the  row  of  benches,  huddled  five 
women.  How  often  men  are  brought  to  San  Filippo 
I  do  not  know.  I  never  have  seen  one.  Two  of  the 
five,  whom  the  people  crowding  in  front  of  the  bar- 
rier nicknamed  "the  twins,"  sat  squeezed  together, 
one  short  and  dark,  the  other  a  big,  round-faced 
blonde,  neither  far  removed  from  idiocy. 

The  oldest  of  the  five  was  a  gray  woman  of  more 
than  fifty  years.  Her  stringy  hair  pushed  plainly 
back,  her  high  cheekbones  and  brown  channeled 
skin,  her  tight  faded  bodice  and  full  gathered  skirt 
were  not  unlike  those  of  twenty  other  women  in  the 
building.  Nor  did  anything  in  her  manner  mark 
her  off  from  them,  except  an  occasional  smile  made 
sinister  by  a  lift  of  the  upper  lip  at  one  side,  show- 
ing a  fang.    Under  the  altar  of  San  Giorgio  she 


220  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

sat,  smiling  and  malign.  The  gossiping  crowd 
called  her  "  'a  jatta,"  the  cat. 

There  was  another  of  whom  the  gossips  spoke  as 
"she  of  the  lovely  face."  The  loveliest  thing  about 
her  was  a  mass  of  dark  hair  that  fell  nearly  to  the 
ground  as  she  sat,  veiling  her  worn  and  faded  cloth- 
ing— red  skirt,  blue  apron,  green  bodice.  Mechanic- 
ally, her  eyes  fixed  on  vacancy,  she  rubbed  a  pic- 
ture of  the  saint  over  her  head  without  ceasing. 

Backed  into  a  corner,  the  poor  creature  who  had 
run  the  gauntlet  remained  impassive,  save  for  heavy 
defiant  eyes  that  watched  for  another  chance  of 
escape.  At  her  the  people  shuddered,  whispering, 
"She  would  not  kiss  the  saint!"  They  called  her 
"  'a  'Murricana" — the  American;  and  said  she  had 
in  her  the  spirit  of  a  wicked  man  who  had  been 
murdered.  Her  husband  had  brought  her  all  the 
way  from  New  York  to  San  Fillppo,  but  the  Amer- 
ican spirit  did  not  understand  Italian,  and  there  was 
little  chance  of  her  liberation. 

In  popular  opinion  the  spirits  that  invade  the 
bodies  of  such  unfortunates  are  mostly  of  the  mur- 
dered and  of  those  cut  off  before  their  time;  souls 
that  wander  through  the  air  causing  storms  and 
seeking  homes  in  other  human  bodies  because  they 
cannot  find  rest  until  the  appointed  hour.  Since  the 
earthquake  at  Messina  with  its  holocaust  of  vic- 
tims the  number  of  such  errant  demons  has  been 
fearfully  multiplied. 

Behind  the  barrier  with  the  five  possessed  ones 


SAINT  PHILIP  THE   BLACK  221 

were  the  priests  who  had  officiated  at  high  mass, 
the  sacristan,  the  old  woman  who  had  recaptured 
"  'a  'Murricana" — a  sinewy  crone  with  scant  white 
hair  and  a  white  kerchief  open  to  her  waist;  and 
two  other  ancient  dames,  less  active,  whose  ker- 
chiefs were  like  flower  gardens. 

For  a  long  time  little  happened.  People  who  had 
rushed  into  the  church  at  the  reappearance  of  the 
possessed  strolled  out  again.  A  plump  middle-aged 
priest  returned  to  the  sacristy.  Two  others,  thin 
young  peasants,  went  and  came  aimlessly.  The 
archpriest,  a  thick-set  man  of  more  than  sixty, 
paced  up  and  down  before  a  great  crucifix,  a  benev- 
olent, white-haired  figure,  not  too  intelligent,  bored 
apparently,  awaiting  like  the  rest  of  us  the  events 
of  the  afternoon. 

A  little  boy  found  his  v;ay  into  the  choir  and 
threw  himself  on  his  knees,  alternately  kissing  a 
picture  of  the  saint  and  shrilling,  "Viva  San  Fi- 
lippu !"  People  said  he  might  be  trying  to  "stir  up 
the  saint." 

And  still  the  possessed  women  sat  quiet.  The  two 
old  women  who  seemed  to  be  under-mistresses  of 
ceremonies  held  icons  before  the  lips  of  "the  twins" 
without  visible  results,  except  that  the  wretched 
girls,  moaning  and  babbling,  wept  their  swollen 
faces  yet  more  sodden. 

The  people  in  the  church  fretted  audibly.  Why 
was  nothing  done?  Why  were  not  the  possessed 
made  to  call  upon  the  saint?    Were  the  evil  spirits 


222  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

so  much  at  ease  in  San  Filippo's  presence  that  they 
did  not  even  stamp?  Why  were  not  the  women 
shaken?    Spirits  do  not  issue  for  an  "if  you  please." 

While  matters  were  thus  at  a  standstill,  the  thin, 
grasshopper  sacristan  leaped  over  the  benches,  the 
ribbons  of  his  black  tie  streaming,  his  arms  flung 
above  his  head  as  if  he  himself  were  bewitched. 
Storming  at  a  group  of  on-lookers,  he  drove  them 
out  at  the  church  door.  Relatives  of  one  of  the  poor 
creatures,  said  the  people.  San  Filippo  is  powerless 
in  presence  of  a  spiritata's — suppliant's — family. 
What  wonder  nothing  had  been  accomplished ! 

And  now,  indeed,  "she  of  the  beautiful  face" 
stopped  rubbing  the  saint's  picture  over  her  hair. 
Starting  from  her  seat  and  thrusting  aside  the  old 
women,  she  began  to  whirl  up  and  down  the  space 
behind  the  barrier,  slowly  at  first,  then  spinning 
like  a  dancing  dervish.  With  every  round  her 
shrieks  grew  louder  and  her  pace  became  more 
dizzy  until  at  last  she  dropped  to  the  floor. 

The  archpriest  calmly  brought  water.  Two  of  the 
old  women  lifted  her  and  helped  her  to  a  chair.  The 
head  old  woman  incited  her  with  wild  gesticula- 
tions. Almost  at  once  she  was  on  her  feet  again, 
stretching  her  arms  towards  the  black  saint  above 
the  altar  and  screaming,  "Viva  San  Filippu!" 

"Louder !  Louder !"  exhorted  the  old  women  and 
the  sacristan.  She  began  to  beat  the  floor  with  her 
feet,  stamping  rhythmically  to  the  shouted  words, 
"Vi-va!    Vi-va!    Vi-va  San  Filip-pu!" 


SAINT  PHILIP  THE  BLACK  223 

It  was  for  this  the  people  had  been  waiting.  "She 
stamps !"  they  said  delightedly.  "The  stamping  be- 
gins!" At  last  the  demon  in  the  woman  felt  the 
saint's  power.  All  day  in  church  it  must  have  been 
uneasy.  It  had  made  her  dance,  and  now  it  was 
stamping.  "She  is  freed!"  flew  from  mouth  to 
mouth.  No  one  had  been  liberated  for  the  whole 
day,  but  now  at  last  the  work  was  beginning.  Men 
and  women  came  running  into  the  church.  They 
pushed  and  thrust  to  reach  the  barrier.  They  el- 
bowed and  kicked.  They  climbed  on  chairs.  They 
began  to  shout  with  "the  pretty  one,"  "Vi-va!  Vi- 
va! Vi-va  San  Filip-pu!" 

The  cry  that  began  uncertainly  with  three  or  four 
voices  was  taken  up  by  hundreds ;  and  presently  the 
sacristan,  springing  again  on  one  of  the  benches 
that  fenced  the  chapel  from  the  rest  of  the  church, 
began  waving  his  long,  windmill  arms  at  us  and 
shouting  like  a  cheer-leader  at  a  football  game. 
"Now  then,  boys,  all  together — Vi-va !  Vi-va !  Vi-va 
San  Fihp-pu!" 

Swinging  half  around  towards  the  woman,  he 
urged  her,  "Stronger!  Stronger! — Vi-va!  Vi-va! 
Vi-va  San  Filip-pu!" 

And  so,  marking  time  with  his  lean  black  rock- 
ing body,  he  led  the  excited  crowd  in  a  chant  the 
beat  of  which  became  ever  more  pronounced  until 
the  roof  shook. 

The  paroxysm  did  not  cease  until  the  woman 
once  more  fell  heavily.  The  three  witches  lifted  her 


224  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

and  the  archpriest  brought  wine.  There  was  a 
period  of  consultation,  and  then  Catina — as  eager 
voices  began  to  say  that  "she  of  the  beautiful  face" 
was  named — was  urged  to  try  again.  She  rose  to 
her  feet,  and  the  sacristan,  still  acting  as  cheer- 
leader, inciting  her  with  waving  arms  and  "Force ! 
Force !"  as  she  beat  the  floor,  and  us  with  "Shout, 
boys!  Louder!"  recommenced  his  measured  cry 
more  frantically  than  before. 

Of  a  sudden  he  interrupted  himself.  "Get  down 
from  the  chairs,  boys!    Stop  breaking  the  chairs!" 

He  wriggled  through  the  crowd,  pulling  people 
from  the  cane  seats  of  the  church  property,  to  which 
at  once  they  climbed  back  again.  In  the  confusion 
the  archpriest  cuffed  the  nearest  boys.  Two  "cara- 
binieri"  who  had  been  in  the  church  throughout  the 
afternoon  forced  people  back  from  the  line  of 
benches  which  had  become  as  crooked  as  a  worm 
fence. 

After  a  minute  the  archpriest  sprayed  Catina 
with  holy  water,  and  the  three  old  women  took 
places  beside  and  behind  her,  shouting  with  the 
sacristan  now  returned  from  his  excursion,  "Vi- 
va !  Vi-va !  Vi-va  San  Filippu !" 

At  length  Catina  sank  into  her  chair,  where  she 
fell  to  weeping  and  to  rubbing  the  picture  again 
over  her  hair. 

This  scene  had  been  repeated  perhaps  three  or 
four  times  when  I  left  the  church  for  a  breath  of 
air.   Half  an  hour  later  on  my  return  the  heat  was 


SAINT  PHILIP  THE  BLACK  225 

more  stifling  and  the  sweltering  mob  more  closely 
packed  than  before.  It  was  not  possible  again  to 
approach  the  freed  ones;  but  an  old  acquaintance 
who  haunts  the  fairs  of  Eastern  Sicily,  little  Lucia, 
a  beggar  child  without  hands,  beckoned  me  to  a 
perch  beside  her  on  the  high  base  of  a  column. 

"The  Signura  will  be  crushed,"  she  said,  smil- 
ing at  me  like  a  hostess,  "down  there  among  the 
'popolazione'." 

Catina  sat  drooping  in  her  chair.  The  archpriest 
had  taken  off  his  purple  stole,  and  was  holding  the 
embroidered  cross  to  her  lips.  He  put  the  stole  upon 
her  shoulders.  He  seemed  to  speak  encouragingly. 
Then  the  old  women  led  her  forward  and  the  rhyth- 
mic pounding  and  shouting  recommenced. 

Of  a  sudden  Catina  stopped  in  her  chant.  Start- 
ing from  her  place  between  the  old  women,  she 
staggered  towards  the  barrier,  lifting  her  arms  and 
livid  face  towards  the  gleaming  eyes  and  forked 
beard  above  the  altar. 

"Do  it  now,  San  Filippu !"  she  implored  as  if  her 
tormented  demons  were  speaking  through  her.  "Do 
it  quickly!   We  are  ready!    Show  thy  mercy!" 

She  opened  her  mouth  and  spat  violently. 

The  crowd  was  hushed.  Excitement  touched 
hysteria. 

"Quick,  San  Filippu!"  she  repeated.  "We  are 
ready !  Grant  us  this  grace !"  Again  she  spat,  shud- 
dering and  swaying;  writhing  as  if  she  would  cast 
out  her  very  soul. 


226  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

"Out  with  it!"  squeaked  the  head  witch.  "Spit 
it  out!  Out  of  her,  Satan,  in  the  name  of  San 
Filippu!" 

"They  go !"  groaned  Catina,  spitting  convulsively. 
"They  are  going!" 

"They  are  gone !"  Gasping,  she  dropped  into  the 
arms  of  the  old  women. 

"Liberata!"  It  was  not  a  word,  it  was  a  vast 
sigh  of  relief  that  went  up  from  the  church.  Like 
the  Messalians  of  old  who  spat  and  blew  their  noses 
without  ceasing,  to  rid  themselves  of  the  devils  that 
filled  them,  so  Catina  had  cast  out  her  devils  at  her 
mouth;  and  more  than  one  of  the  spectators  snap- 
ped his  own  shut,  not  to  afford  them  refuge.  The 
old  women  stroked  and  patted  her,  helping  her  to 
a  seat,  adjusting  her  dress  and  smoothing  her 
tangled  hair. 

Yet  something  like  a  chill  seemed  to  damp  the 
audience.  Catina's  clothing  had  not  fallen.  If  the 
spirits  really  had  been  cast  out,  why  had  they  not, 
in  leaving,  torn  off  her  clothes?  She  should  have 
been  left  naked !  Was  there  not  a  sheet  in  readiness 
on  the  altar  of  San  Giorgio?  Spirits  do  not  go  out 
so  decently.  So  the  people  reasoned,  doubting  the 
miracle.  They  were  hardly  persuaded  even  when 
the  sacristan,  climbing  up  behind  the  altar,  hung  to 
the  saint's  hand  a  thank-offering  of  two  fine  old 
earrings. 

Catina  was  a  widow,  little  Lucia  told  me;  she 


SAINT  PHILIP  THE  BLACK  227 

had  three  children,  and  could  spare  little  except  her 
earrings  in  return  for  liberation. 

After  some  minutes  she  came  out  alone  from  the 
chapel,  walking  unsteadily  to  the  chancel  gate.  Her 
long  hair  had  been  bound  up,  and  a  red  ribbon — 
"the  measure  of  the  saint" — hung  about  her  neck. 
She  knelt  on  the  altar  steps  and  repeated  aloud  a 
formula  of  thanks  to  San  Filippo.  Then  she  passed 
wearily  on  to  the  sacristy. 

All  the  spring  was  gone  out  of  the  tired  sacristan. 
Half-heartedly  he  helped  the  old  women  conduct 
the  sullen  one  and  "the  American"  in  front  of  the 
main  altar.  One  smiled  at  the  saint  her  malignant 
smile,  the  other  refused  to  look  at  him,  and  pres- 
ently both  were  taken  away  together  with  "the 
twins."  The  crowds  were  dispersing. 

"Signura,  I  go,"  said  Lucia,  putting  up  the  stump 
of  an  arm  to  brush  away  a  lock  of  her  bright,  pretty 
hair. 

"I,  too,  am  going,"  I  answered. 

I  left  Lucia  at  work  on  the  steps  of  the  church, 
where  Ninu  and  Cicciu  still  clamored,  "Help  the 
blind!"  There  were  to  be  fireworks  that  evening 
and  a  band  concert.  For  Ninu  and  for  Lucia  fes- 
tival days  are  days  of  harvest. 


CHAPTER  IV 
The  Miracles  of  Sant'  Alfio 

(Paul  had)  shorn  his  head  in  Cenchrea,  for  he  had  a 
vow.— Acts  XVIII. 

To  some  of  these  deities  the  Egj-ptians  give  thanks  for 
recovering  their  children  from  sickness,  as  by  shaving  their 
heads  and  weighing  the  hair  with  the  like  weight  of  gold 
or  silver ;  and  then  giving  the  money  to  them  that  have  the 
care  of  the  beasts. — Diodorus  Siadus. 

Alfio,  Filadelfo  and  Cirino  were  Christian 
brothers  persecuted  under  Decian  and  Valerian. 
Persisting  in  their  faith,  they  were  set  to  carry 
from  Taormina  to  Lentini  a  heavy  beam  fastened 
across  their  shoulders.  Near  the  hamlet  now  called 
Sant'  Alfio,  above  Giarre,  a  whirlwind  caught  away 
the  beam  into  midair.  The  soldiers  of  the  escort 
stopped  with  their  prisoners  at  Trecastagne  to  rest 
and  recover  from  fear.  Arrived  at  Lentini,  the  three 
brothers  were  martyred  by  Tertullus,  commander  of 
the  garrison.  Alfio  suffered  the  pulling  out  of  his 
tongue;  Filadelfo  was  broiled  on  a  gridiron;  Cirino 
boiled  in  a  caldron  of  pitch. 

The  martyrs  were  taken  as  patrons  by  the  towns 
of  Sant'  Alfio,  Trecastagne  and  Lentini.  each  of 

228 


THE  MIRACLES  OF  SANT'  ALFIO      229 

which  celebrates  a  festa  in  their  honor  for  three 
days,  beginning  with  the  tenth  of  May,  The  festa 
at  Trecastagne,  the  largest  spring  festival  in  East- 
ern Sicily,  is  mainly  in  honor  of  Sant'  Alfio,  the  only 
miracle-worker  of  the  three. 

Sant'  Alfio  stood  up  under  the  beam,  while  his 
brothers  crouched.  Thus  he  became  ruptured,  and 
acquired  the  power  to  heal  rupture.  He  lost  his 
tongue,  and  gives  speech  to  the  dumb.  With  Sant' 
Agata  of  Catania  he  protects  the  mountain  villages 
from  Etna ;  and,  as  do  many  saints,  he  watches  over 
emigrants  at  sea. 

Like  Demeter  "of  the  big  loaf" — of  the  full  din- 
ner pail — a  modern  saint  who  influences  weather 
and  crops,  or  who  heals  the  sick,  is  sure  of  votaries. 
"He  is  too  miraculous,"  say  my  friends  who  fear 
Sant'  Alfio.  "It  is  a  pain  to  see  his  miracles.  He  is 
a  saint  who  makes  himself  respected  for  sure." 

Agatina's  grandmother  did  not  approve  of  the 
levity  with  which  Agatina  and  I  prepared  for  our 
trip  to  Trecastagne.  Agatina's  nonna  is  a  dignified 
old  woman  who,  like  the  saint,  makes  herself  re- 
spected. She  had  been  buying  "ox-eyes"  of  a  pass- 
ing fisherman,  choosing  those  best  speckled  with 
red,  and  still  sat  in  the  doorway  of  the  antiquities 
shop,  the  little  shining  fishes  in  a  plate  on  her  lap, 
while  she  glanced  up  and  down  the  Corso  observ- 
ing the  news  of  the  morning. 

Near  her  house  in  Catania  there  lived  fifteen 
years  ago,  she  told  us,  a  man  who  was  paralyzed. 


230  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

On  the  eve  of  the  festa  of  Sant'  Alfio,  as  this  man 
lay  in  his  bed  praying,  there  appeared  to  him  a 
stranger  clothed  in  white,  who  asked  what  ailed 
him,  and  who  rubbed  him  with  an  ointment,  after 
which  the  paralytic  got  up  and  walked.  The  stranger 
was  Sant'  Alfio. 

*Tn  the  days  of  to-day  the  saints  no  longer  ap- 
pear to  men,  because  there  is  no  faith;  we  others 
are  not  worthy,"  she  concluded,  re-tying  the  knot 
of  her  purple  and  white  head-kerchief,  and  rising 
heavily  to  carry  the  fish  indoors.  "We  are  not 
children  of  the  saints,  like  our  ancients." 

The  old  woman's  disapproval  checked  our  light- 
mindedness.  I  had  been  teasing  Agatina  for  put- 
ting on  her  pretty  gray  spring  dress  with  its  lace 
blouse  and  the  plumed  hat  that  framed  her  delicate 
face  so  becomingly.  "There  will  be  more  than 
30,000  people,"  I  said;  "why  try  to  make  a  figure? 
Sant'  Alfio  won't  see  your  finery." 

Agatina  declared  mysteriously  that  she  was  a 
practical  woman. 

That  evening,  when  we  reached  the  house  of 
Agatina's  parents  in  Catania,  her  stout,  child- 
burdened,  good-humored  mother,  after  scattering 
her  family  to  Catania's  great  fish-market  to  buy  our 
supper,  to  the  bed-rooms  to  turn  down  our  beds,  to 
the  dining-room  and  the  kitchen,  found  time,  as  she 
tied  on  her  work-apron,  to  disapprove  of  our  trip 
even  more  thoroughly  than  had  the  grandmother. 

"Capers  and  clover!"  she  exclaimed.     That  two 


THE  MIRACLES  OF  SANT'  ALFIO      231 

women  should  start  for  Trecastagne  at  two  o'clock 
in  the  morning  along  with  the  riff-raff  who  would 
be  swarming  up  the  long  road  in  the  darkness,  how 
was  Pippinu  thinking? 

She  cuffed  Alfieddu,  the  sticky-fingered  three- 
year-old  who  clung  to  her  skirts,  instead  of  cuffing 
me;  ejaculating  as  he  screamed,  "Mary  Mother, 
what  torment!    He  drives  me  into  hysterics!" 

"Listen,"  laughed  Agatina;  "how  Mamma  is 
jesting !" 

Agatina  had  telegraphed  Pippinu,  her  husband, 
for  permission  to  come  with  me  to  the  festa;  but 
from  the  depths  of  Calabria,  where  he  had  gone 
with  a  gun  for  quail  and  bad  Christians  and  an  eye 
for  old  furniture  to  sell  to  tourists,  Pippinu  had 
not  answered.    This  lack  we  concealed. 

On  his  return  from  the  fish  market,  Agatina's 
sensible,  middle-aged  father  brought,  in  addition  to 
our  supper,  the  driver  he  had  chosen  f(-r  our  car- 
riage; and  while  the  red  meaty  slices  of  tunny  fish 
were  cooking,  he  instructed  Santu  not  to  race  his 
horse,  and  not  to  bring  us  back  next  day  by  the  high- 
way, where  the  traditional  "return  of  the  drunk- 
ards" would  be  in  full  swing.  We  were  to  take  a 
quiet  side  road,  and  we  were  to  have  as  escort 
Agatina's  seventeen-year-old  brother,  Michellinu. 

At  this  Michellinu  looked  bored.  Later,  while  one 
sister  was  brushing  Agatina's  long  hair,  and  an- 
other was  censoring  my  Sicilian,  my  friend  excused 
her  brother.     "£  appassionatu,"   she   said;   "he's 


232  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

very  much  in  love.  We  others  are  live  flames." 
We  Sicilians,  that  is  to  say. 

"He  doesn't  look  it,"  said  the  younger  sister. 
"Signora,  say  'tri' ;  ah,  you  can't  do  it ;  no  one  but 
a  Sicilian  born  can  pronounce  Sicilian!  Signora, 
try  again;  say  'tri!'  " 

At  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  when  the  sound 
of  horses'  hoofs  roused  us  from  brief  rest,  Michel- 
linu  did  not  look  a  live  flame;  even  a  boy  of  seven- 
teen cannot,  when  he  is  sleep3^ 

Below  in  the  darkness  our  carrozzella  was  wait- 
ing. Somewhere  in  the  distance  sounded  revolver 
shots.  "The  gallants,"  volunteered  Santu;  "the 
young  bloods  are  starting  up  their  horses." 

As  we  moved  towards  Catania's  main  street, 
shouts  and  the  rapid  fire  of  crackers  became  louder. 
Once  on  the  Via  Stesicoro  Etnea,  the  jingle  of 
bells,  the  snapping  of  whips,  the  rattle  of  tam- 
bourines, even  the  gun  fire,  were  merged  in  the  con- 
fused roar  of  thousands  of  people.  Half  Catania 
was  keeping  vigil.  The  broad  street  was  packed 
with  carts  and  carriages  three  and  four  abreast,  all 
moving  in  one  direction,  straight  towards  Etna.  It 
was  a  dark  stream  of  which  one  could  not  see 
the  end. 

The  carriages  were  overloaded  with  people  able 
to  hire  them.  Two-wheeled  carretti  carried  ten  or 
a  dozen  each  of  "little  people,"  men,  women,  chil- 
dren and  babies,  laughing,  beating  drums  and  shak- 
ing tambourines,  waving  flaring  torches,  discharging 


THE  MIRACLES  OF  SANT'  ALFIO      233 

pistols  close  to  the  horses'  ears.  The  sidewalks  were 
jammed  with  other  thousands  jostling  forward, 
shouting. 

"Viva  Sant'  Aaaaarfiu!"  was  the  bellow  that  im- 
posed itself  through  the  din. 

Catania  had  gone  mad,  as  it  does  every  year  on 
the  evening  of  the  tenth  of  May.  Santu  turned 
cautiously  into  the  torrent. 

"There  will  be  a  horse  dance  all  the  way";  had 
said  Agatina's  wise  old  father ;  and  indeed  the  play 
of  whips  as  each  driver  lashed  his  crazed  team  to 
force  it  ahead  of  the  one  in  front  threatened  some- 
thing worse  than  a  dance  of  horses.  The  hospitals 
are  busy  after  the  race  to  the  shrine  of  Sant'  Alfio. 

Beyond  the  city  and  its  suburbs,  on  the  long 
straight  course  into  the  foothills,  the  scene  was  wild. 
Though  the  stars  were  bright,  it  was  dark  between 
the  high  walls  that  shut  away  vineyards  and  lemon 
gardens ;  all  the  darker  for  the  yellow  glare  of  cane 
torches  that  flamed  on  straining  horses  and  black, 
swaying  figures  as  the  galloping  procession,  carriage 
after  carriage,  cart  by  cart,  lurched  past  us. 

"May  your  horse  drop  dead,  cold  as  a  pear!" 
growled  Michellinu,  rousing  himself.  "Can't 
he  go?" 

"He  is  I'Allegru,  the  Lively,"  said  Santu  stolidly. 
"Forty  lire  were  offered  me  to  let  a  young  fellow 
race  him  to-night;  but  I'm  too  fond  of  him.  He'll 
be  in  at  the  finish,  without  dripping  blood  like  these 
others.    Shall  we  bet  on  it?" 


234  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

Michellinu  wound  a  shawl  about  his  head  and 
lapsed  into  gloom. 

We  were  climbing  steadily.  It  was  cold.  Agatina 
had  left  in  Catania  her  fine  frock,  and  was  wearing 
the  common  one  her  practical  mind  had  hidden 
under  it.  A  black  head  scarf  and  heavy  black  shawl 
had  turned  her  into  a  brilliantly  pretty  contadina. 

"Michellinu  is  cross,"  she  answered  Santu;  "be- 
cause he  didn't  want  to  come.  But — here  comes  an- 
other caravan  of  the  nudes!" 

At  every  stiff  grade  where  we  slowed  to  a  walk, 
groups  of  "nudi"  passed  us  at  a  trot.  They  were 
not  moving  in  great  bands,  as  I  have  seen  them  at 
the  festa  of  San  Sebastiano  at  Melilli ;  but  by  tens 
or  twenties.  Except  for  a  red  or  white  loin  sash, 
some  were  literally  naked,  as  v/as  David  when  he 
danced  before  the  Lord  girded  with  a  linen  ephod ; 
or  as  were  the  Bedouins  when  they  made  the  sacred 
circle  of  the  Ca'aba  in  the  days  before  Mahomet. 
Some  added  to  the  red  sash  short  white  cotton 
breeches.  Some  wore  a  sleeveless  shirt,  as  well  as 
drawers  and  streaming  ribbons.  A  few  wore  their 
ordinary  clothing  with  the  red  band  draped  from 
one  shoulder  under  the  opposite  arm.  Almost  all 
were  barefooted.  When  the  head  was  not  bare,  it 
was  covered  by  a  white  kerchief  knotted  like  a 
turban. 

Each  was  making  his  pilgrimage  as  he  had  vowed 
it;  "dressed  nude"  as  the  phrase  is,  or  simply  bare- 


THE  MIRACLES  OF  SANT'  ALFIO      235 

footed.  Each  carried  his  monstrous  candle,  trimmed 
with  flowers  and  broad  red  ribbons. 

Each  group  moved  past  us  at  a  lunging  run,  look- 
ing neither  to  the  right  nor  the  left,  panting  with 
dry  throats,  "Viva  Sant'  Aaaaarfiu !"  Their  breath 
came  in  gasps.  They  pumped  out  the  words.  One 
man  was  a  mute  who  moaned  grotesque,  inarticu- 
late cries.  One  man  limped;  he  had  hurt  his  foot, 
yet  not  for  that  did  he  give  over  the  vow  he  had 
sworn — eight  miles,  involving  more  than  1,800  feet 
of  ascent,  without  slackening  pace  to  Trecastagne, 

One  of  the  "nudes"  was  not  running;  he  walked 
beside  his  wife,  a  small  woman  in  black  whose  hair 
streamed  loose  over  her  shoulders.  He  carried  a 
torcia  decked  with  red  rosettes,  she  a  red-rosetted 
baby. 

There  were  many  women  who  walked,  like 
Petronius's  Roman  matrons  when  they  prayed  Jove 
for  water,  "up  the  hill  in  their  stoles  with  bare  feet 
and  loosened  hair."  But  the  greater  number  of 
these  Catanese  matrons,  even  when  they  let  down 
their  dark  braids  and  made  their  pilgrimage  with 
disordered  hair,  removed  from  the  feet  their  shoes 
only,  and  walked  in  stockings. 

Horses  continued  to  pound  past  at  a  furious  pace, 
the  flags  and  tall  pheasants'  plumes  that  rose  from 
their  heads  wig-wagging,  their  fly-nets,  covered  with 
red,  white  and  yellow  artificial  flowers,  slapping 
madly.     L'Allegru  was  not  so  fine;  Santu  had  put 


236  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

no  holiday  touches  to  his  harness  beyond  his  gay 
little  bells. 

It  was  the  mules  and  horses  drawing  the  painted 
Sicilian  carts  whose  trappings  put  us  most  sadly  to 
shame.  Not  a  harness  showed  a  hint  of  leather. 
Many  a  man  had  spent  the  savings  of  months  on 
the  mirrored  panaches  of  vari-colored  plumage  that 
towered  from  back  and  head  piece,  and  on  capari- 
sons that  made  the  carter's  mule  as  gorgeous  as  the 
steeds  of  Rinaldo  and  Charlemagne,  whose  knightly 
exploits  were  pictured  on  his  cart.  In  tinsel  and 
spangles,  flashing  with  mirrors  and  vivid  with 
isinglass,  were  wrought  scrolls,  arabesques,  double- 
headed  eagles,  knights'  heads  and  cherubs  that 
glittered  with  every  toss  of  head  or  lift  of  hoof, 
and  housed  the  animals  till  they  looked  weighed 
down  by  their  own  splendor. 

We  reached  a  low  black  village  crouching  in  the 
lavas  of  Etna.  There  were  lights  in  the  doorways, 
where  people  had  gathered  to  see  us  pass.  "The 
first  stage,"  said  Agatina,  as  we  came  to  a  wine  shop 
the  door  of  which  was  wreathed  with  ivy  and  fresh 
lemon  boughs.  Over  the  door  were  hung  round 
loaves  of  bread.  In  front  were  tables  set  with  coffee 
cups.  Many  a  man  threw  himself  exhausted  on  the 
ground  to  rest  while  eating. 

At  the  watering  trough  was  a  mix-up  of  horses* 
heads  and  legs  in  the  dance  to  approach.  "Some 
dispute  might  arise,"  said  Santu,  as,  to  Michellinu's 
disgust,  he  kept  I'Allegru  still  in  the  rear. 


THE  MIRACLES  OF  SANT'  ALFIO      237 

Up  and  up  the  dark,  narrow  road  we  climbed. 
The  scent  of  lemon  and  orange  flowers  no  longer 
drifted  over  the  walls.  We  had  reached  the  vine- 
yards of  the  terre  forti,  Sicily's  strong  lands.  The 
"nudi"  overtook  us  on  every  rise;  on  every  descent 
we  left  them  behind.  They  had  no  breath  left. 
Painfully  they  wheezed,  "Sa-ant'  A-a-rfiu!" 

Imperceptibly  the  sky  paled.  In  the  East  there 
came  a  faint  red  streak  under  the  waning,  just-risen 
moon.  Overhead  the  heavens  were  blanching  to 
white.  The  West  sulked  blacker  than  before.  From 
the  moment  of  the  start  Mungibeddu  (Etna)  had 
loomed  across  our  path,  a  ghostly  shape ;  now  it  ap- 
peared a  sharp-cut  silhouette  against  the  sky.  There 
came  a  cold  dawn  light  over  the  snows  of  the  moun- 
tain and  in  the  blue  air.  The  procession  of  carts 
and  carriages  looked  interminable.  The  red  streak 
in  the  sky  widened.  Below  us  the  quiet  sea  was  the 
color  of  steel. 

We  began  to  see  more  clearly  the  villages  we 
passed,  with  here  and  there  a  fondaco  lighted  for 
the  sale  of  bread,  wine,  bran  and  hay.  We  met 
beggars,  the  one-armed  and  one-legged,  the  blind 
and  the  dumb,  who  swarm  at  every  festa.  A 
cripple  who  had  vowed  to  the  saint  a  wax  leg  if  he 
should  be  healed  carried  on  a  tray  his  "miracle" 
while  he  begged  money  to  pay  for  it. 

The  "nudi"  quickened  their  pace.  Their  shirts 
were  gray  with  dust.  Their  eyes  stuck  out  blood- 
shot. 


238  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

Trecastagne  was  just  ahead.  We  could  see  the 
jagged  skyline  of  its  houses  and  church  spires.  On 
each  side  of  the  way  were  now  "sons  of  Etna,"  as 
the  human  sons  of  the  volcano  call  the  many  erup- 
tive cones  it  has  flung  out  upon  its  sides.  Those 
near  us,  dead  for  ages,  seemed  alive  once  more, 
shining  with  the  green  flame  of  wheat. 

It  was  well  before  sun-up  when  we  reached  the 
foot  of  the  steep  incline  at  the  entrance  to  the 
village.  Here  in  the  old  days  the  racers  tied  the 
fore  legs  of  their  horses  before  beginning  the  last 
frantic  dash  to  greet  Sant'  Alfio.  That  custom  is 
gone,  but  the  mad  race  continues. 

Horse  after  horse  struggled  past  us,  sobbing  for 
breath,  streaked  with  bloody  lather;  the  driver  on 
his  feet,  swaying,  swinging  the  lash  and  screaming. 
Just  in  front  a  nervous  white  horse,  fretted  by  his 
housings,  and  his  two  towering  panaches,  balked, 
blocking  the  way.  The  whip  rained  cuts  on  his 
bleeding  flanks,  and  he  bolted.  Behind  us  the  mo- 
ment's halt  had  brought  up  half  a  hundred  vehicles 
with  their  babel  of  bells,  cracking  whips,  shouts  and 
gunfire. 

To  this  point  I'Allegru  had  come  sleek  and  cool. 
Now  for  the  first  time  Santu's  whip  sang  in  air,  and 
he  bent  forward,  calling  softly,  "Let's  be  going!" 
L'Allegru  took  the  hill  at  the  head  of  the  mob. 

Michellinu's  head  poked  out  from  under  the  folds 
of  the  gray  shawl.  Casting  it  from  him,  he  scram- 
bled upon  his  seat,  holding  to  Santu's  shoulders  and 


THE  MIRACLES  OF  SANT'  ALFIO      239 

shrieking  to  the  horse,  "Ah  ccaa !  Ah  ccaa !  Car- 
ricca!  Ah,  ccaa!"  At  every  team  we  passed  his 
fingers  made  the  derisive  sign  of  the  horns. 

"Get  down,  Michellinu!"  called  his  sister;  but  to 
me  she  said  proudly,  "A  live  flame,  isn't  he?" 

And  so  we  entered  Trecastagne,  scattering  holi- 
day crowds,  endangering  the  street  stands  of 
hawkers,  rocking  from  side  to  side,  galloping  to 
the  very  church  door. 

"Is  your  Lordship  satisfied?"  asked  Santu  yet 
more  softly,  stroking  I'Allegru's  nose. 

"He  can  go,"  grunted  Michellinu,  falling  back 
into  indifference. 

Early  as  it  was,  the  piazza  could  not  hold  its 
swarming  multitudes.  The  place  was  like  a  great 
camp  of  gypsies  waking  to  the  business  of  the  morn- 
ing. Fortune  tellers,  merry-go-rounds  and  gam- 
bling games  were  in  full  swing.  A  moving  picture 
show  was  hanging  out  Tripoli  war  posters.  We 
stopped  to  look  at  nothing,  but  went  at  once  to  the 
church  of  Sant'  Alfio. 

The  building  was  of  some  size,  though  of  no 
architectural  pretensions.  From  the  doorway  it 
looked  as  if  entrance  would  be  impossible.  Thou- 
sands of  people  had  left  their  homes  in  distant 
villages  at  sunset  of  the  previous  evening,  and  had 
been  kneeling  before  the  high  altar  since  the  church 
opened  at  midnight.  The  press  to  reach  the  altar 
rail  was  suffocating.  The  church  was  hot,  and 
echoed  with  the  confused  noise  of  men  and  women 


240  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

moving  about,  weeping,  praying  aloud.  The  air 
was  heavy  with  candle  reek  and  incense. 

We  could  see  but  little.  Columns  and  walls  were 
hung  with  the  gaudy  paraments  of  tinseled  paper 
which  in  days  of  festa  degrade  the  decent  white 
plaster  of  Sicilian  village  churches.  These  were  the 
usual  heavy  draperies  in  elemental  colors — red,  blue, 
yellow  and  green,  spangled  and  gilt-bordered,  gleam- 
ing darkly  in  the  shadows  where  the  flame  of  the 
great  altar  candles  did  not  penetrate. 

Near  the  door  by  which  we  stood  the  walls  were 
covered  with  votive  pictures,  perhaps  like  those 
which  Juvenal  had  in  mind  when  he  said  that 
Roman  painters  got  their  living  out  of  Isis.  All 
were  small,  some  dim  with  age,  some  fresh  with 
colors  not  six  months  old.  Here,  painted  on  tin 
or  wood,  were  sick  men  spitting  blood  or  dying 
with  cholera;  here  were  a  soldier  wounded  at 
Misurata  in  a  Tripoli  campaign ;  a  man  saved  from 
the  Messina  earthquake ;  a  house  saved  from  Etna ; 
a  ship  saved  from  wreck  near  New  Orleans.  Each 
scene  was  sketched  with  the  crudest  realism,  and 
bore  name,  date  and  description  of  the  miracle. 

Above  and  beside  the  pictures  hung  wax  ex-voti, 
models  of  legs  and  arms,  throats  and  stomachs, 
gruesome  with  red  marks  of  wounds  or  pits  of  dis- 
ease; "the  price  and  pay  for  those  cures  which  the 
god  hath  wrought,"  says  Livy  of  just  such  objects 
that  hung  in  the  temples  of  Esculapius.  Behind 
the  ears  of  a  wax  head  clung  wax  leeches. 


THE  MIRACLES  OF  SANT'  ALFIO      241 

A  column  near  us  was  hung  with  children's  cloth- 
ing; straw  hats  and  caps,  little  breeches  and  petti- 
coats, offered  to  Sant'  Alfio  for  the  healing  of  the 
infants,  as  to  San  Sebastiano  of  Melilli,  San  Calo- 
gero  of  Girgenti  and  many  other  saints  of  Sicily. 
Beside  the  column  stood  a  table  where  two  priests 
were  selling  penny  pictures  of  the  saints.  From 
the  high  altar  to  the  main  doorway  ran  a  railway 
for  the  processional  exit  of  the  "vara,"  the  saints' 
car. 

Little  by  little  we  edged  our  way  towards  the 
front  of  the  church  where  flowers,  flung  over  the 
chancel  rail  by  almost  everyone  who  entered,  lay 
In  heaps  at  the  foot  of  the  altar.  Beside  a  table  to 
the  left  of  the  chancel  stood  a  stout  sacristan  re- 
ceiving offerings.  As  we  approached  he  held  up  a 
watch  with  dangling  chains,  and  the  church  shook 
with  vivas. 

Next  came  a  ruptured  baby.  The  sacristan  took 
it  in  his  arms,  laid  it  on  the  floor  among  the  flowers, 
and  then  held  it  up,  bare  legs  kicking,  to  show  thatj 
the  flesh  had  closed  and  the  rupture  was  no  longer 
visible. 

A  mother  placed  on  the  table  her  little  girl,  and 
stripped  off  green  skirt,  pink  waist  and  yellow  ker- 
chief until  the  mite  stood  before  us  naked.  The  sac- 
ristan, expressionless  as  a  sheep,  received  the  bun- 
dle, while  the  mother  reclothed  in  a  fresh  dress  the 
little  one,  now  free,  according  to  tradition,  of  all 
trouble. 


242  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

At  my  side  a  woman  held  a  red-frocked  baby. 
"An  idiot,"  said  another  neighbor  in  my  ear;  she 
asked  the  mother,  "Was  the  miracle  made?" 

"Not  yet,"  came  the  sighing  answer. 

Two  mutes  were  flinging  up  their  arms  and  writh- 
ing in  frenzied  struggle  to  call  upon  the  saint,  the 
expected  sign  of  liberation  being  the  power  to  speak 
his  name.  Tears  rolled  down  their  cheeks.  Their 
inarticulate  cries  rose  above  every  other  noise;  an 
agonized  "uh,  uh,  uh,  uh!" 

Beside  one  of  them,  a  man  seemed  to  stretch  with 
his  whole  body  towards  the  great  golden  doors 
above  the  high  altar,  behind  which  in  their  niche  the 
saints  were  still  hidden.  He  was  thin  and  worn- 
looking,  shabbily  dressed.  Clasping  his  hands  high 
in  air,  he  moaned  without  ceasing,  "Sant'  Arfiu! 
Do  me  the  miracle !  Liberate  my  son !  Sant'  Arfiu !" 

Our  neighbors  said  that  one  of  the  mutes  was 
his  only  child. 

There  was  a  sudden  stir  in  the  church.  We  were 
flung  back  with  a  violent  wave  movement  as  the 
throng  gave  place  before  the  entrance  of  a  group 
of  "nudi."  Shouting  they  ran,  their  candles  flaring 
as  they  swopped  past  us  to  the  altar,  where  their 
yells  of  "Sanf  Arfiu!  Viva  Sant'  Arfiu!"  made 
the  roof  ring.  Their  brown  faces  lined  and  hag- 
gard, shirts  dripping  sweat,  their  quivering  bodies 
painted  with  the  red  of  their  sashes  they  stood 
triumphant,  casting  down  flowers,  holding  up  huge 
torches  to  the  sacristan. 


THE  MIRACLES  OF  SANT'  ALFIO      243 

I  wondered  then,  I  wonder  now,  how  Columbus 
dressed  when  he  carried  his  "wax  taper  of  five 
pounds"  to  St.  Mary  of  Guadaloupe  after  his  escape 
from  shipwreck  returning  from  the  discovery  of 
America. 

As  the  men  disappeared  in  the  admiring  care  of 
relatives,  a  blue-clad  girl  of  eight  or  nine  was  lifted 
over  the  rail,  struggling  and  holding  out  her  arms 
to  be  taken  back  again.  Her  father  bade  her  kneel, 
and  she  did  as  she  was  bidden,  looking  about  wildly 
for  a  familiar  face,  her  plump  cheeks  streaked  with 
dirt  where  her  fingers  continued  to  rub  away  tears. 
Women  sobbed  as  loud  as  she,  saying  one  to  an- 
other, "She  has  no  speech,  poor  little  thing." 

The  girl's  mother  fought  past  us  with  frantic  feet 
and  elbows,  shrieking,  "My  child  is  frightened! 
Let  me  pass!    Let  me  pass!    My  child  is  afraid!" 

She  dropped  on  her  knees  at  the  chancel  rail,  but 
we  did  not  see  what  happened,  for  there  came  an- 
other wave  of  excited  movement  in  the  church. 

"They  are  making  the  vow  of  the  tongue!"  said 
Agatina,  dragging  me  with  her  toward  the  rails  laid 
for  the  wheels  of  the  processional  car. 

Up  the  track  constructed  for  the  vara  from  the 
doorway  to  the  altar  there  came  a  man  who  walked 
slowly  backward,  flicking  with  a  handkerchief  the 
pavement  grimed  with  the  tread  of  thousands.  Be- 
hind him  crawled  one  of  the  "nudes"  on  hands  and 
knees,  painfully  licking  crosses  on  the  floor.  His 
movement  from  doorway  to  altar  was  blind  and 


244  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

wavering.  After  each  slow  forward  grope  there 
came  a  pause;  one  wondered  if  he  would  have 
strength  to  proceed. 

The  people  pressed  close  to  the  track  crying  hys- 
terically, "Bravu,  son!  Courage!  Courage!  An- 
other little  and  we  are  there!" 

"Back !  Back !"  called  others.  "Don't  you  see  he 
is  suffocating?" 

Inch  by  inch  the  man  lapped  his  way  towards  the 
chancel.  Behind  him  came  a  second  and  a  third. 
There  were  seven  in  line.  Earlier  in  the  morning 
at  one  time  there  had  been  ten.  One  or  two  were 
supported  by  a  knotted  kerchief  passed  under  the 
neck  and  held  by  a  friend. 

Staggering  dizzily  to  his  feet  at  the  altar  rail, 
the  first  man  tottered  a  minute,  staring  about  him, 
stammering  thickly,  "Viva  Sant'  Arfiu!"  The 
building  echoed  and  re-echoed  with  the  answering 
shout.  Then,  wiping  with  a  handkerchief  his 
swollen  tongue,  he  lurched  to  one  side  and  dis- 
appeared. 

When  all  seven  had  passed  there  came  a  gray 
haired  woman  in  black,  who  looked  nearer  sixty 
than  fifty  years  of  age.  So  slowly  that  it  seemed  as 
if  she  could  never  finish,  wandering  from  the  track 
in  spite  of  the  guiding  rails,  trembling  from  ex- 
haustion, she  fulfilled  her  vow.  Her  mouth  was 
full  of  blood  as  friendly  hands  lifted  her. 

Agatina  had  turned  veiy  white;  she  whispered, 
"Shall  we  go?" 


THE  MIRACLES  OF  SANT'  ALFIO      245 

Not  far  behind  us  a  woman  had  begun  to  flourish 
scissors.  A  younger  woman  at  her  side  had  taken 
off  her  white  head  kerchief,  and  was  fumbling  with 
hairpins.  Down  fell  two  long  dark  braids.  A 
minute  later  the  scissors  were  laboring  close  to  the 
younger  woman's  head.  The  hair  was  thick;  we 
could  hear  the  grinding  of  the  blades.  Presently 
there  came  away  one  of  the  tresses.  Its  owner 
coiled  and  pinned  what  hair  remained,  and  hid  her 
disfigurement  under  the  kerchief.  Then  she  tied 
the  severed  braid  with  a  red  ribbon  and  gave  it  to 
the  sacristan,  who  held  it  up  for  exhibiton. 

There  had  appeared  at  the  altar  a  young,  red- 
cheeked  priest  in  golden  vestments  who  gave  com- 
munion to  kneeling  devotees.  One  such  brought  a 
candle  so  heavy  that  only  with  great  effort  could 
he  lift  it.  It  was  fully  two  meters  long  and  thicker 
than  a  man's  leg.  Its  owner  was  taken  over  the  rail 
with  it.  "Any  more?  Is  there  any  other?"  the 
priest  was  calling,  holding  up  his  wafer,  as,  cling- 
ing together,  we  reached  the  open  air. 

It  was  not  seven  o'clock.  We  had  been  in  the 
church  only  two  hours,  yet  we  have  gone  back  to  the 
times  when  Julius  Caesar  crawled  on  hands  and  knees 
up  the  steps  of  the  Capital  to  appease  Nemesis. 

In  the  piazza  the  crowd  had  become  so  dense  that 
it  was  almost  as  hard  to  move  about  as  indoors.  The 
square  was  of  some  size,  surrounded  by  the  small 
gray-plaster  houses  of  a  Sicilian  village.  It  was 
given  over  to  hawkers  and  hucksters,  for  the  festa 


246  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

presents  the  same  medley  of  religion,  trade,  athletics 
and  amusement  that  constituted  the  Olympian 
games. 

At  one  end  were  piled  tons  of  garlic.  Beyond 
were  pottery,  glass,  copper,  tin  and  iron  ware ;  sad- 
dles and  donkey-harness;  straw  hats  and  caps  dis- 
played on  the  ground.  Push  carts  and  improvised 
tables  were  heaped  with  nespoli,  cherries,  sides  of 
bacon,  fishes  in  oil.  Long  lines  of  booths  were  de- 
voted to  high-colored  sweets,  toys,  kerchiefs  and 
scarfs  and  many  sorts  of  small  wares. 

In  a  dirty  inn  we  drank  a  dark,  muddy,  sweet 
fluid  that  had  all  the  vices  and  none  of  the  virtues 
of  Turkish  coffee.  The  owner  of  the  shop  had 
nailed  up  a  rough  shelf  outside  the  door  and  hung 
a  balance.  He  brought  out  in  his  hands  a  roasted 
sheep,  smoking  hot;  and,  after  haggling  with  a 
customer,  hacked  it  with  a  cleaver.  The  buyer  re- 
ceived a  quarter  on  a  kerchief,  knotted  opposing 
corners  and  so  carried  away  his  portion. 

Two  or  three  doors  away  a  rival  dealer  bran- 
dished the  head  of  a  ram  impaled  on  a  pointed  stock, 
its  dead  eyes  glaring,  its  horns  ready  for  battle. 
The  two  barkers  shouted  in  competition.  "Roast 
sheep !  Roast  sheep !  Better  than  sweets !  Roast 
sheep !    Better  than  sweets !" 

On  the  other  side  of  the  narrow  way  there  bally- 
hooed  three  or  four  vendors  of  roasted  "ciceri,"  the 
chick-peas  of  Cicero's  family  name,  and  squash 
seeds,  peanuts,  dried  chestnuts  and  roasted  beans. 


THE  MIRACLES  OF  SANT'  ALFIO      247 

One  of  them  was  crying:  "Hot,  all  hot;  red  hot 
the  ciceri !  Here  I  have  them  all  hot !  Red  hot  the 
ciceri !" 

To  which  another  responded:  "'Murricani! 
'Murricani!  Who  wants  to  eat  American  nuts? 
Peanuts !    Peanuts !" 

The  peanuts  were  small  and  poor ;  they  lay  about 
in  sacks  marked  "Portland  cement." 

The  brown,  seamed  face  of  the  woman  who 
roasted  the  ciceri  fascinated  me.  Her  orange  head- 
kerchief  was  knotted  at  the  back  of  her  head,  show- 
ing earrings  that  touched  her  shoulders.  Her  black 
dress  was  tucked  up,  leaving  her  petticoats  pro- 
tected by  a  huge  blue  apron.  On  a  circle  of  lava 
stones  rested  a  deep  iron  pan  over  a  fire  of  vine 
cuttings.  In  the  pan  was  sand,  which  she  stirred 
with  a  wooden  shovel  till  it  came  to  the  right  heat; 
then  she  turned  in  her  peas,  stirred  briskly  till  they 
began  to  pop,  and  then  with  bundles  of  rags  lifted 
the  pan — it  was  patched,  for  I  counted,  with  nine 
pieces  of  iron  nailed  on — and  turned  the  sand 
through  a  sieve  into  another  big  pan,  delivering  the 
hot  peas  to  her  husband,  v/ho  acted  as  salesman. 

"A-li!  A-H!  A-li!"  drivers  shouted  to  their 
mules.  Carts  and  carriages  were  still  coming  up  the 
hill,  plumes  waving,  harness  glittering.  Champions 
were  giving  exhibitions  of  whip-snapping. 

Fishsellers  arrived  almost  as  exhausted  as  the 
"nudi."  Like  these,  they  had  run  all  the  way  from 
Catania,  bringing  fish  taken  during  the  night.     In 


248  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

the  flat  baskets  on  their  heads  eels  were  still 
wriggling. 

Some  distance  up  a  steep  side  street  Santu  had 
unharnessed  L'Allegru.  With  him  we  found 
Michellinu,  who  had  slipped  away  from  us  while 
we  were  in  church,  and  who  could  not  be  brought 
to  cheerfulness  even  by  Agatina's  promise  of  a  share 
of  her  "falsamagru"  at  luncheon.  Wearily  he  came 
with  us  to  look  at  the  carretti. 

Every  writer  on  Sicily  talks  of  the  painted  carts 
of  Palermo;  but  he  who  has  not  seen  the  festa  at 
Trecastagne  has  missed  one  of  the  great  cart  sights 
of  the  island.  Over  a  large  part  of  Eastern  Sicily 
every  carter  who  affords  himself  a  new  cart  or  has 
an  old  one  repainted  times  the  work  to  have  it  fresh 
and  shining  for  Sant'  Alfio. 

Among  the  carretti  parked  in  Santu's  neighbor- 
hood were  one  or  two  decorated  in  the  older  style 
which  Pitre  says  was  general  down  to  i860,  having 
the  panels  of  the  drab  or  yellow  box  painted  with 
fruit  or  flowers.  But  the  rest  of  these  vehicles, 
whose  mission  in  life  it  is  to  carry  charcoal,  sulphur, 
stones,  sand,  oil,  bricks  or  any  other  merchandise, 
were  vivacious  as  a  moving  picture  show.  The  two 
panels  of  each  side  and  the  three  panels  of  the  back 
were  covered  with  figures,  and  each  figure,  in  a  style 
sincere,  vivid  and  mediaeval,  got  action. 

Against  a  background  of  dragons'  blood  red  the 
paladins  of  Carlo  Magno  tilted  in  the  lists,  crusaders 
fought  Saracens,  San  Giorgio  slew  the  dragon,  or 


THE  MIRACLES  OF  SANT'  ALFIO      249 

Sant'  Agata  worked  miracles.  Columbus  discovered 
America  and  Ruggiero  repeated  all  his  real  and 
legendary  Sicilian  victories.  One  or  two  of  the 
Catania  cart  painters  had  departed  from  tradition, 
and  made  to  live  again  such  recent  happenings  as 
the  assassination  of  King  Umberto,  King  Vittorio 
Emanuele  watching  an  aviation  display,  the  Messina 
earthquake  and  battles  in  Tripoli. 

"Look;  the  starry  flag!"  said  Michellinu,  point- 
ing out  a  cart  which  showed  the  Stars  and  Stripes 
wreathed  with  the  Italian  tricolor  as  frained  to  its 
pictured  panels. 

The  paint  was  shining  new.  Stepping  closer,  we 
saw  that  the  cart  bore  the  date  May  i,  19 13.  On 
one  side  was  blazoned  a  rendition  of  Washington 
Crossing  the  Delaware,  flanked  by  Lincoln  Receiving 
a  Group  of  Freed  Slaves.  On  the  other  side  were 
Washington's  Farewell  to  His  Troops  and  Wash- 
ington's Farewell  to  Lafayette.  On  the  tailpiece  was 
the  Assumption  of  the  Virgin  with  at  one  side  Envy, 
green  and  scowling,  and  on  the  other  Fortune,  in 
yellow  with  streaming  banner. 

The  owner  of  the  cart  came  forward  to  enjoy 
our  interest  in  his  horse's  brilliant  caparisons.  He 
was  called  Bernardo  Pappalardo,  and  he  said  he 
had  worked  four  years  in  the  woolen  mills  of  Taun- 
ton, Massachusetts.  He  had  saved  a  little  "pile," 
and  had  come  home  with  it  a  year  earlier  to  Catania. 
Needing  a  cart,  he  had  sent  to  Boston  for  picture 
postcards  to  help  in  its  decoration. 


2SO  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

Proudly  he  called  attention  to  the  carved  Turks* 
heads  that  finished  the  key  bar  under  the  box  and 
to  the  two  mottoes  set  into  the  lacelike  iron-work 
below  the  portrait  of  Garibaldi: 

"Se  nemico  set,  guardami  con  invidia;  se  amico 
set,  con  placer e,"  ran  the  first:  'Tf  thou  art  an 
enemy,  regard  me  with  envy;  if  a  friend,  with 
pleasure."  The  second  said,  "This  cart  is  thus  ele- 
gant to  give  an  answer  to  the  ignorant." 

We  ate  early  the  chicken  that  Agatina  had 
brought,  and  her  "falsamagru,"  which  was  rolled 
like  a  jelly  cake  with  chopped  meat,  eggs  and  good 
black  olives  inside.  From  a  huckster's  cart  we  got 
wild  artichokes  and  scalora,  a  variety  of  endive. 

High  mass  was  beginning.  Its  progress  was 
marked  by  the  clangor  of  bells  and  the  explosion  of 
mortars.  At  a  certain  point  we  knew  by  the  roar 
of  cannon  from  the  hill  that  the  golden  doors  above 
the  altar  had  opened,  and  the  three  saints  were  dis- 
closed to  adoration. 

When  we  tried  to  push  our  way  back  to  the 
church,  it  was  twelve  o'clock,  almost  time  for  the 
saints'  triumphal  procession  through  the  village. 
The  piazza  was  all  but  impassable.  The  vendors 
of  tin  ware,  the  men  with  copper  pots  and  braziers 
and  brass  lamps,  the  men  with  pottery,  the  men  with 
strips  of  hide  for  shoes,  the  men  with  saddles  and 
donkey  harness,  were  gathering  up  their  goods  from 
the  ground. 

The  tin  especially  interested  me.     Out  of  empty 


THE  MIRACLES  OF  SANT'  ALFIO      251 

cans  the  smiths  had  contrived  graters,  cups,  lamps, 
lanterns,  sauce-pans,  utensils  of  many  sorts  still 
bearing  the  manufacturers'  labels  of  canned  sar- 
dines, tomato  conserve  or  biscuits. 

The  oil  jars,  the  mixing-bowls,  the  plates  and 
the  basins  of  glazed  earthenware  shone  in  brilliant 
greens,  yellows  and  blues.  The  water  jars  were  of 
uncolored  red  terra  cotta.  We  watched  an  old 
shepherd  from  the  mountains  squat,  choose  a 
"quartara"  and  test  it  carefully  by  sound  for  any 
imperfection  in  the  baking. 

In  the  morning  a  great  stretch  of  ground  had 
been  covered  with  spreading  hats  of  dwarf  palm; 
now  these  were  hung  against  the  walls  of  houses. 
An  energetic  woman  stood  over  a  quantity  of  cheap 
German  cloth  caps  trying  one  after  another  on  the 
head  of  a  loutish  boy  who  drooped  in  the  sun  as 
his  mother  critically   surveyed  him. 

The  mountains  of  garlic  had  diminished.  Every 
other  man  and  every  mule  wore  a  rope  of  garlic 
as  a  necklace. 

Small  gambling  games  did  a  lively  trade.  On  a 
table  under  a  big  red  umbrella  little  nickel  horses, 
legs  and  tails  in  air,  raced  round  and  round,  ridden 
by  knights  in  red,  green,  yellow  and  black,  whose 
colors  corresponded  with  those  of  other  little  horses 
painted  in  the  many  narrow  radiating  segments  that 
divided  the  circle  of  the  table. 

At  the  next  stand  was  a  fishing  game.  Your  hook 
caught  an  envelope  which  held  a  ticket  which  gave 


252  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

the  number  of  the  trinket  you  won.  The  fisher- 
man's invitation,  punctured  by  his  jangling  bell,  ran, 
"Come  in,  fellows,  let's  go  fishing !  To  the  miracu- 
lous fishing,  come  on !" 

Swanns  of  flies  settled  over  the  cherries  and  the 
sweets.  Every  hawker  had  thrust  into  his  goods  a 
split  stick  carrying  a  picture  of  the  saints,  and  had 
wound  his  balance  with  roses. 

Little  terra  cotta  whistles  crudely  colored  to  rep- 
resent saints  were  among  the  toy-dealers'  best  sell- 
ers. Michellinu  chose  one  that  stood  for  the  risen 
Christ;  Agatina  took  the  Madonna  Addolorata;  I 
chose  Sant'  Alfio. 

The  people  who,  like  ourselves,  were  struggling 
for  viewpoints  near  the  church  were  mostly  of  city 
types  unlike  the  mountain  gnomes  one  sees  at  Ran- 
dazzo  or  Bronte,  higher  on  the  slope  of  the  volcano. 
Some  mountaineers  there  w^re,  small,  dark  people, 
their  eyes  squinting  at  the  sun;  the  men  wearing 
short  pendent  caps,  the  women  heavy  antique  ear- 
rings. But  more  numerous  were  handsome,  white- 
skinned  girls  of  Catania  with  soft,  rounded  faces, 
black  hair  and  big  dark  eyes  half-hidden  under  black 
shawls. 

There  were  many  brides,  marked  by  shining  dove- 
colored  silk  dresses  and  shawls.  In  the  old  days  it 
often  happened  that  a  Catania  bridegroom  bound 
himself  in  his  marriage  contract  to  take  his  bride 
to  the  festa  of  Sant'  Alfio.  Perhaps  it  happens 
sometimes  to-day. 


THE  MIRACLES  OF  SANT*  ALFIO      253 

Near  the  main  doors  of  the  church  a  brass  band 
worked  so  industriously  that  I  did  not  hear  when 
Carmela  spoke  to  me,  nor  did  I  see  the  hands  that 
she  and  her  sister  and  her  mother  stretched  to  draw 
us  into  their  position  of  advantage.  Carmela  had 
told  me  only  two  days  earlier  that  she  should  not 
dare  to  come  to  the  festa  because  she  had  not  yet 
the  money  to  buy  a  wax  stomach ;  yet  here  she  was ; 
to  help  her  sister,  she  told  us. 

Carmela  had  vowed  a  stomach  to  Sant'  Alfio 
something  more  than  two  years  earlier  on  recovery 
from  an  illness;  but  when  his  festa  came  around 
she  had  not  saved  money  enough  to  present  more 
than  a  rotolo  of  wax,  about  a  pound  and  three- 
quarters.  The  next  year,  still  unable  to  spend  six- 
teen lire  for  the  stomach,  she  offered  a  candle  weigh- 
ing two  rotoli.  This  year  she  had  feared  the  saint 
would  look  bored  if  she  presented  herself  for  the 
third  time  stomachless ;  but  her  sister's  great  candle 
had  to  be  brought,  and  the  sister  could  not  bring  it 
alone. 

The  wife's  husband,  who  had  just  emigrated,  had 
written  from  New  York  that  during  a  storm  at  sea 
he  had  vowed  a  candle  of  five  kilos  if  the  ship  should 
come  safely  to  land.  "He  said,"  continued  Carmela, 
"that  his  wife  must  fulfill  his  promise." 

Carmela  and  her  sister  are  dark,  wholesome  girls 
with  high  cheekbones  and  the  regular  features  of 
Arabs.  Their  mother  still  has  a  red  glow  in  her 
olive  cheeks,  but  most  of  her  teeth  are  gone,  and 


254  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

her  forehead  is  puckered  from  the  effects  of  strong 
sunlight.  Carrying  by  turns  the  eleven-pound 
candle,  the  three  had  walked  in  stockings  the  twenty 
miles  or  more  from  Taormina,  arriving  at  Trecas- 
tagne  the  evening  before. 

They  had  been  in  the  church  since  midnight,  and 
could  tell  us  the  gossip  of  the  festa.  The  woman 
whom  we  had  seen  sacrifice  her  hair  had  done  so 
because  of  a  grace  given  to  her  a  few  minutes  before 
our  arrival.  She  had  brought  in  her  arms  from 
Catania  a  seven-year-old  daughter  who,  after  a 
long  illness,  had  become  lame.  The  mother  im- 
plored Sant*  Alfio  to  liberate  the  child,  but  nothing 
happened.  At  last  the  two  sat  down  in  the  church, 
the  mother  sobbing.  But  of  a  sudden,  said  Carmela, 
"The  little  one  jumped  up,  walked  and  shouted, 
'Viva  Sant'  Alfiu !'  "  The  mother  fainted  for  joy, 
and  when  she  recovered  she  caused  her  hair  to  be 
cut  in  gratitude  for  the  miracle. 

Our  friends  said  that  most  of  the  men  who  had 
licked  the  pavement  had  done  so  because  during  the 
eruption  of  Etna  six  months  earlier  Sant'  Alfio  had 
caused  the  lava  to  spare  their  vineyards. 

But,  before  the  women  had  time  to  tell  us  more, 
with  a  clamor  of  brass  and  tumult  of  bells  the 
gilded  "vara"  appeared  on  the  threshold  of  the 
church,  and  Sant'  Alfio,  San  Filadelfo  and  San 
Cirino,  three  seated  wooden  figures  painted  in  green, 
gold  and  red,  were  before  us,  receiving  the  salute  of 
40,000  frenzied  people. 


THE  MIRACLES  OF  SANT'  ALFIO      255 

Hot  air  balloons  went  up.  "Viva  Sant'  Alfio," 
written  in  huge  letters  across  the  facade  of  the 
church,  flashed  out  in  sputtering  fireworks.  The 
bells  in  the  campanile  crashed  an  ear-splitting 
gloria.  The  air  was  thick  with  powder  smoke.  The 
ground  shook  with  the  explosion  of  mortars  and 
cannon. 

Meanwhile  on  the  golden  car  sat  the  three 
brothers  side  by  side,  each  impassive  on  his  chair 
of  state,  a  full  moon  halo  shining  at  his  back ;  each 
dressed  in  brilliant  vestments  and  hung  with  jewels 
and  flower  garlands. 

The  struggle  to  approach  the  vara  was  appalling. 
Men  carrying  babies  kicked,  shoved  and  cursed 
their  way  towards  salvation  for  their  infants.  Sant' 
Alfio  is  criticised,  Carmela  told  us,  because  it  is 
mostly  men  who  obtain  the  miracles;  but  this  is 
not  his  fault ;  it  is  only  because  women  cannot  get 
at  him. 

Across  the  middle  of  the  flat  car  ran  a  gilded 
fence,  behind  which,  under  the  canopy  of  the  saints, 
stood  the  priest  and  sacristan  we  had  seen  in  the 
morning.  Outside  the  bar  on  the  front  platform, 
immobile,  expressionless  as  the  statues,  stood  two 
carabinieri.  Clinging  wildly  to  the  sides  and  front 
were  shrieking  men,  holding  up  watches,  money, 
children.  Some  were  mutes,  some  possessed  with 
evil  spirits;  some  merely  distracted  fathers. 

Some  of  the  gifts  received  by  priests  and  sacris- 
tan went  into  the  box  over  which  the  policemen 


2  56  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

stood  guard;  some  were  pinned  to  Sant'  Alfio's 
clothing,  which  presently  was  a-flutter  with  paper 
money.  I  recognized  numbers  of  American  bills. 
One  man  reached  up  a  kicking  kid  which  the  priest 
laid  over  his  shoulder.  Another  offered  a  live  hen, 
gay  with  red  ribbons. 

Now  and  then  the  priest,  reaching  down,  took  a 
child  from  its  father,  laid  it  on  the  platform  of  the 
vara,  and  after  a  minute,  picking  it  up  again,  held 
it  high  in  sight  of  the  shouting  mob,  or  gave  it  back 
to  the  father  without  showing.  A  few  favored 
children,  placed  on  the  floor  of  the  car  before  it 
issued  from  the  church,  remained  there  throughout 
the  procession. 

After  a  long  wait  the  sacristan  tinkled  a  bell  and 
the  car  started  forward  a  fev/  paces,  running  on 
low  wheels  and  pushed  by  every  hand  that  could 
reach  its  long  side  bars.  Behind  it  blared  the  band ; 
in  front  walked  hundreds  of  people  carrying  great 
candles.  After  a  minute  it  stopped  again,  facing  us. 
There  was  a  fresh  outburst  of  gunfire. 

This  time  we  could  see  more  distinctly  the  re- 
splendent painted  images,  each  bearing  the  palm  of 
martyrdom.  Sant'  Alfio  sat  between  his  brothers, 
so  bedizened  that  earrings,  bracelets,  watches  and 
golden  chains  combined  to  make  for  him  a  glitter- 
ing barbaric  garment.  Men  and  women  who  could 
put  a  finger  to  his  chair  or  to  that  of  either  of  his 
brothers  kissed  the  finger  devoutly. 


THE  MIRACLES  OF  SANT'  ALFIO      257 

"How  he  is  beautiful!"  murmured  Carmela's 
mother.   "He  looks  as  if  he  were  going  to  speak." 

At  this  moment  a  three-year-old  boy  in  a  con- 
spicuous green  skirt  was  passed  up  to  the  priest, 
mother  as  well  as  father  stretching  after  him  el- 
oquent gesticulating  arms.  After  a  little  while  man 
and  woman  struggled  back  in  our  direction  sobbing. 

"He  didn't!"  wailed  the  father;  "He  didn't  do 
it ;  the  saint  didn't  do  it !  Poor  son ;  poor  little  son 
of  mine ;  Poor  broken  baby !" 

They  passed  out  of  our  sight.  Later  I  saw  the 
green  skirt  on  the  vara  a  second,  and  then  a  third 
time. 

"Look,  Vossia,"  said  Carmela  at  my  ear;  "the 
saint  does  look  out  of  sorts;  I  ought  not  to  have 
come." 

"Out  of  sorts?   How  can  you  tell?" 

*T  know,"  returned  Carmela;  "without  the  stom- 
ach I  ought  not  to  be  here." 

Carmela's  trepidation,  or  fatigue,  was  so  genuine 
that  we  withdrew  with  her  and  her  people  to  the 
balcony  of  a  house  that  overlooked  the  route  of  the 
procession.  From  this  vantage  point  we  watched 
for  another  hour  the  offering  of  gifts  and  the 
prayers  for  assistance.  Next  day  we  heard  that  in 
money,  jewelry,  loads  of  wheat,  wine,  carts,  and 
horses  Sant'  Alfio  received  nearly  $5,000.  He  is 
very  rich  indeed. 

After  the  procession  had  passed  the  side  street 
where  we  had  left  Santu,  we  returned  to  the  car- 


2  58  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

riage.  Preparations  were  in  progress  for  fireworks 
and  other  spectacles  in  the  evening;  but  the  mass 
of  hoUdaymakers  were  already  tying  bunches  of 
garlic  and  pictures  of  the  saints  to  the  panaches  of 
the  mules,  and  beating  drums  and  tambourines  as 
they  climbed  into  carts,  or  mounted  their  women 
folks  behind  them  on  asses,  ready  for  the  occasion. 
A  blind  tale-singer  recited  to  the  notes  of  a 
squeaky  violin: 

^3  When  San  Filadelfu  was  druggist, 
And  San  Cirinu  was  the  doctor, 
With  Sant'  Alfiu  the  surgeon, 
They  made  pass  every  pain. 

With  eleventh  hour  desperation  the  hucksters 
thrust  small  wares  into  women's  hands,  shouting, 
"What  fine  goods,  women!  It's  a  piggish  shame  to 
leave  them." 

It  was  good  to  turn  away  from  the  noise  and  the 
shouting  for  the  quiet  Mascaluccio  road  which 
Agatina's  father  had  recommended  for  our  return. 
We  took  Carmela  into  the  carriage,  since  she  re- 
fused to  rest  for  the  night  with  her  mother  and 
sister  at  Trecastagne. 

"Sant'  Alfiu  always  smiles  at  sight  of  the  people 
at  his  festa,"  she  said  mournfully;  "but  to-day — 
he  did  look  out  of  sorts." 

^^  E   San  Filadelfu  era  speziali, 
E  San  Cirinu  era  lu  dutturi, 
E  Sant'  Alfiu  chirugo  magari 
Facevunu  passari  ogni  duluri. 


THE  MIRACLES  OF  SANT'  ALFIO      259 

The  Mascaluccio  road  is  not  beautiful,  but  its 
grades  are  so  stiff  that  few  carts  followed  us.  Car- 
mela  and  Santu  told  tales  of  miracles  as  we  jogged 
homeward  through  old  fields  of  lava,  where  the  tree 
like  genestra  of  Etna  blossomed  fragrant  and  yel- 
low, though  we  were  too  tired  to  listen.  It  was  still 
mid-afternoon,  but  even  I'Allegru,  the  Lively,  was 
subdued.  Michellinu  had  deserted  us  for  the  cart 
of  a  friend. 

Down  through  the  region  of  vineyards  and  of 
lemon  gardens  we  came  to  the  suburbs  of  Catania, 
where  thousands  of  people  had  come  out  to  watch 
the  annual  spectacle  of  the  return,  which  is  not  in 
any  Northern  sense  of  the  word  a  descent  of  the 
"drunken."  For  a  Sicilian  a  little  meat  and  a  mir- 
acle are  an  orgy.  Through  the  long  Via  Stesicoro 
Etnea  we  rattled  as  we  had  done  the  night  before, 
in  a  hubbub  of  bells,  cracking  whips  and  tam- 
bourines. 

Agatina's  mother  had  prepared  a  great  dinner 
equal  to  that  of  the  last  day  of  Carnival ;  but  we  did 
not  stay  to  eat  it.  Tinuzza  and  Turriddu,  Agatina's 
children,  were  expecting  us  in  Taormina. 

From  the  doorstep  of  the  antiquities  shop  they 
shouted  as  the  old  post  wagon  came  willingly  to  a 
stop:  "A  fairing!  A  fairing!  You  promised  us  a 
fairing!  The  ciceri?'* 

We  gave  them  saintly  whistles  and  tambourines; 
but  the  ciceri  were  saved  for  the  morning. 

When  the  children  had  whistled  and  drummed 


26o  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

themselves  away,  Agatina's  nonna  explained  why 
Sant'  Alfio  cannot  grant  a  miracle  to  everyone  who 
asks  it.  "Not  a  leaf  moves  without  the  will  of 
God."  And  then  one  must  comply  with  conditions. 

Once  a  mother  asked  her  three-year-old  child 
v.ho  was  dumb,  "What  will  you  give  Sant'  Alfio  if 
he  liberates  you?"  This  is  custom.  One  asks  a 
child,  and  it  holds  up  perhaps  the  bread  it  is  eating, 
perhaps  a  toy;  the  first  thing  it  sees.  The  offering 
must  be  just  that.  The  three-year-old  held  up  a 
bean.  To  the  mother  a  bean  seemed  too  mean  a 
thing  to  be  accepted  by  the  saint,  and  she  had  it 
copied  in  silver. 

"The  child  was  not  liberated,"  concluded  the 
dignified  old  woman. 

"Before  next  year  I  must  buy  that  stomach,"  said 
Carmela,  shaking  her  head  forebodingly. 

I  left  Agatina  telling  her  grandmother  about  that 
live  flame,  Michellinu. 


CHAPTER    V 
The  Car  of  Mary  at  Randazzo 

The  heap  of  old  houses  blackened  by  the  sun  and  beaten 
by  the  winds,  on  the  edge  of  cliffs  under  which  runs  the 
Alcantara — who  looks  at  the  merlature  of  its  walls  and  its 
gates,  the  Gothic  windows  of  Santa  Maria  and  of  San 
Martino,  cannot  resist  a  sort  of  fascination,  almost  an  hal- 
lucination :  It  seems  that  the  city's  barons  are  on  the  alert. — 
Italia  Artistica. 

At  four  in  the  morning  the  Bagnoli  Croce  is 
awake.  It  is  still  dark,  but  there  are  lights  in  the 
houses,  and  I  hear  voices.  Going  down  to  Giardini, 
I  meet  mules  coming  up,  laden  with  barrels  of 
water  and  wine.  A  muleteer  warns  me,  "Carefully, 
Signura ;  the  road  is  bad."  It  is  dawn  before  I  reach 
the  marina ;  twenty-five  or  thirty  men  are  hauling  a 
net.  The  Alcantara  is  reduced  to  a  thread  of  water. 
Etna  looks  very  near  and  very  brown.  At  Giarre 
men  are  loading  into  a  freight  car  great  bales  of 
snow  from  its  upper  slopes,  protected  by  thick  layers 
of  broom  and  oak  leaves. 

The  garden  behind  the  Circum-Etna  station  at 
Giarre  shows  what  can  be  done  with  irrigation.  It 
it  a  riot  of  roses,  hibiscus,  geraniums  and  oleanders. 
The  vineyards  on  the  lower  slopes  of  Etna  are 

261 


262  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

heavy  with  purple  clusters.  Knotty,  rheumatic- 
looking  vines,  closely  pruned,  from  which  half  the 
leaves  have  fallen,  carry  grape  bunches  that  must 
weigh  several  pounds.  At  frequent  intervals  we 
pass  a  straw  hut,  newly  built  or  put  in  repair,  the 
sheepskins  on  its  raised  floor  showing  that  the 
watchman  is  not  far  distant.  Every  palm  of  ground 
is  cultivated.  The  "sorbi"  are  turning  red.  Pear 
trees  overladen  are  propped  by  long  canes. 

As  we  climb  higher,  tlie  tall  genestra  of  the  Etna 
slopes  still  shows  a  few  fragrant  yellow  blossoms. 
Near  Castiglione  the  plantations  of  hazel  nuts, 
planted  as  regularly  as  the  hills  of  a  cornfield,  show 
themselves  heavy  with  fruit. 

Some  stations  before  reaching  Randazzo  our 
third-class  car  becomes  overfull.  Women  carry  big 
pasteboard  boxes  that  hold  their  gala  clothes.  The 
guard  jests  with  a  group  of  boys.  "To  the  festa? 
Yes?  Bravo!  Then  take  care  of  this  half  of  your 
ticket.  You'll  need  it  coming  home.  Do  you  under- 
stand?" A  little  girl  clutches  in  her  sweaty  hand 
the  claws  of  a  frightened  sparrow.  She  doesn't 
know  she  is  cruel.    She  tries  to  feed  the  bird. 

From  Giarre  one  goes  up  and  up  among  terraces 
and  vineyards,  flourishing  in  lava  which  has  be- 
come rich  soil.  As  one  passes  them  one  sees  the 
lava  not  yet  reduced  to  cultivable  powder  piled  into 
the  walls  of  terraces  or  into  heaps.  What  infinite 
labor  to  reclaim  even  these  patches  of  fruitful  soil ! 

There  are  wonderful  views  of  the  sea  where  the 


'•■^K 


l^>^. 


A  Straw  Hut 


THE  CAR  OF  MARY  AT  RANDAZZO    263 

Alcantara  comes  down,  a  streak  of  yellow  and 
white,  becoming  green,  and  melting  into  the  blue 
of  the  sea.  The  clouds  throw  shadows  that  lie  on 
the  mountains,  deep  blue  at  some  hours,  towards 
sunset  red.  The  transparency  of  the  air  is  such  that 
to  name  a  color  is  almost  impossible.  Deep,  deep 
blue  predominates.  As  one  rises  higher  one  comes 
to  scattered  pines  and  passes  through  miles  of  hazel 
woods  and  birches.  Before  and  after  the  hazel 
groves  one  passes  pine  groves  of  enormous  extent, 
but  the  trees  are  all  apparently  young. 

Beyond  Solicchiata  one  passes  lava  ejected  in 
1879,  3.  dead  country;  the  lava  assumes  grotesque 
forms  of  giants  and  dwarfs,  animals  and  sea  waves, 
at  the  caprice  of  nature.  Where  a  teaspoonful  of 
soil  has  accumulated  springs  a  brilliant  yellow 
flower.  Here  and  there  the  lava  is  piled  into  ter- 
races to  give  place  to  a  spot  of  cultivated  ground. 
The  black  lava  stones  are  in  color  a  murky,  brown- 
ish black,  dead,  without  character  or  shape; 
amorphous. 

It  is  hard  to  explain  the  existence  of  the  villages 
that  one  sees  lost  among  the  mountains.  What 
brought  anyone  here  to  live?  Castiglione  is  three 
and  one-half  miles  from  the  railway,  yet  it  looks 
prosperous  and  populous. 

Randazzo  itself,  stern  and  black  looking  in  its 
lava  dress,  and  with  successive  waves  of  lava 
flows  of  the  past  scarring  the  country  about  it,  is 
spelled  in  terms  of  power.    Even  to-day  the  strategic 


264  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

importance  of  the  valley  of  the  Alcantara  is  recog- 
nized by  the  Italian  government ;  the  valley  dug  out 
by  nature,  between  Etna  and  the  Nettuniani  moun- 
tains, is  a  great  way  of  travel  between  the  Eastern 
coast  and  the  island  centers;  who  holds  Randazzo 
is  master,  commanding  the  roads  to  Messina,  Mi- 
lazzo  and  Patti.  So  Peter  of  Aragon  must  have 
reasoned,  who  came  here  after  the  Sicilian  Vespers, 
and  his  crowning  in  Palermo  in  1252,  to  liberate 
Messina  beseiged  by  d'Angio.  So  perhaps  thought 
Federico,  Frederick  II  of  Aragon,  who  chose  it  as 
his  summer  home. 

L'Arezzo,  il  Riccioli  and  others  may  be  right  who 
insist  that  Randazzo  was  inhabited  by  the  Romans, 
and  by  the  Greeks  before  them ;  they  must  be  right, 
considering  its  commanding  site;  but  its  historic 
fame  is  slight  before  those  spacious  times  when 
Robert  Guiscard  came  into  the  land,  "in  stature 
taller  than  the  tallest,"  as  Anna  Comnena  describes 
him ;  "of  a  ruddy  hue  and  fair  haired ;  he  was  broad- 
shouldered  and  his  eyes  sparkled  with  fire ;  the  per- 
fect proportion  of  all  his  limbs  made  him  a  model 
of  beauty  from  head  to  heel."  Bloody  battles  were 
fought  in  its  neighborhood  by  the  Byzantines  and 
the  Normans  against  the  Saracens,  and  the  city  was 
taken  now  by  one  party,  now  by  another ;  after  nine 
centuries  the  plain  where  Georges  Maniaces  gave 
battle  to  the  Paynims  still  bears  the  title  "della 
Sconfitta";  of  the  Defeat;  eight  centuries  ago,  only, 
Roger  sent  hither  Greek  slaves  from  the  islands  of 


THE  CAR  OF   MARY  AT  RANDAZZO    265 

the  archipelago  who  established  the  silk  trade — an 
infant  industry,  quite,  in  these  old  lands! 

From  Randazzo  the  hard  mountain  slopes  look 
even  more  bleak  than  in  winter;  all  brown,  lacking 
the  cool  contrast  of  green  and  snow.  But  no  one 
has  eyes  to  spare  from  nearer  scenes.  The  tree- 
shaded  space  at  the  entrance  to  the  town  is  the 
scene,  as  usual,  of  the  fair  that  accompanies  the 
festa.  There  are  mountains  of  green  melons,  bas- 
kets of  figs  and  of  fichi  d'lndia,  apricots,  grapes, 
pears.  There  are  heaps  of  terra  cotta  wares,  tin, 
glass.  Under  the  trees  at  each  side  of  the  way  are 
tables  for  the  "little  horses,"  targets  for  shooting 
at  the  mark,  rough  benches  for  luncheon,  the  usual 
merry-go-round  and  band  stand. 

A  band  from  Riposto,  followed  by  all  the  popula- 
tion, parades  the  streets.  They  are  brilliant  with 
devices  to  call  attention,  vocal  v/ith  cries  of  vendors, 
fortune-tellers,  showmen  and  all  the  traveling 
chasers  of  coin  whose  calendars  are  marked  with 
the  dates  of  island  festivals.  And  from  the  country 
about  the  peasants  have  poured  in.  Under  the  flut- 
tering flags,  going  towards  the  Matrice,  I  notice 
just  ahead  an  elderly  man  with  an  elf-lock,  sticking 
out  from  among  the  short  grizzled  hair  on  the  back 
of  his  head.  The  younger  men  wear  sprigs  of  basil 
in  their  buttonholes ;  older  people  dress  as  in  winter ; 
the  women  in  white  wool  mantles,  the  men  wear- 
ing stocking  caps.  The  great  vases  hooped  into 
their  iron  rings  on  every  balcony  are   gay  with 


266  BY-PATHS   IN   SICILY 

brilliant  blue  morning-glories,  petunias,  fuschias, 
carnations,  roses,  basil  and  kitchen  greens.  A  can- 
tastorie  is  singing  and  selling  songs  of  "The  Great 
European  Conflict."  A  word  or  two  comes  to  the 
ear  in  passing. 

"Every  poor  mother  afflicted,  whose  dear  sons 
have  departed,  prays  from  her  heart  the  hand  divine 
to  send  them  back  in  safety.  Every  mother  weeps, 
evening  and  morning;  sad  have  become  the  poor, 
the  rich  and  every  sort  of  people;  peace  is  ours  no 
more,  we  are  anxious." 

Men  of  hard  brown  faces  stop,  listen,  shake  their 
heads  and  pass  on.  Children  gather  about  a  lame, 
bright-eyed  old  fellow  who  is  selling  whistles  made 
in  the  form  of  small,  rude  terra  cotta  images  of 
saints,  painted  in  primary  colors.  Any  member  of 
the  heavenly  choir,  from  St.  Michael,  the  Arch- 
angel, to  the  Madonna  Addolorata,  can  be  had  for 
a  soldo.  But  to  me  the  price  is  four  soldi.  "Why? 
Because  I  am  Sicilian,  and  sell  according  to  the 
customers.  You,  a  lady,  are  able  to  pay  four  soldi ; 
the  boys  are  not.  What  are  you  doing,  kid?"  And 
he  hobbled  off  swearing  at  an  urchin  who  was 
fingering  the  basket  load  of  saints. 

"The  risen  Christ?  All  right;  bravo!"  The  boy 
goes  off,  shrilling  on  his  penny  whistle. 

In  the  Matrice,  or  Mother  Church,  men  and 
women  are  kneeling  before  the  chapel  where  lies  a 
life  size  image  of  the  dead  Madonna  on  a  lace- 
covered  bier.   Long  hair  flows  about  her  shoulders. 


THE  CAR  OF  MARY  AT  RANDAZZO    267 

She  wears  a  blue  mantle  and  a  pink  silk  robe  tied 
with  a  flowered  sash.  Marble  feet  in  leather  san- 
dals peep  from  beneath  her  skirts;  her  head  rests 
on  a  silver  halo.  At  her  head  and  feet  watch  papier- 
mache  angels.  Over  her  body  is  thrown  a  veil  of 
tulle.  Tall  candles  droop  in  the  heat ;  as  do  the  basil 
and  flowers  that  stand  in  great  jars  behind  the 
chapel  rail. 

At  my  side  kneels  a  woman  hidden,  except  fore- 
head and  eyebrows,  under  her  white  wool  man- 
tellina.  She  is  praying  in  an  undertone  loud  enough 
to  catch  the  ear:  "Beautiful  Mother,  I  entreat  you 
that  my  son  be  not  called  as  a  soldier."  Not  many 
of  us  that  day  were  in  festival  mood! 

From  the  moment  of  my  entrance  into  town  I 
have  seen  the  framework  of  the  tall  car  backed  up 
against  the  wall  of  the  sacristy  of  the  Matrice,  and 
the  throng  of  people  drawn  to  the  town's  chief  pride, 
superintending  the  operation  of  preparing  it  for 
the  procession.  This  car  deserves  a  detailed  de- 
scription, for  it  is  the  vehicle  of  a  Strang  rite,  sug- 
gesting atavistic  survivals  from  very  old  days. 

The  entire  car  has  a  height  of  fifteen  or  sixteen 
yards,  about  a  yard  higher  than  in  recent  years.  It 
consists  of  a  low,  heavy  base  car  from  which  rises 
a  mast  of  wood  bound  with  iron,  to  which  the  va- 
rious "fantasies"  are  fixed.  This  mast  is  made  to 
turn  by  four  men  who  sit  on  supports  arranged 
under  the  floor  of  the  car,  which  rolls  on  wheels. 

The  "fantasies"  are  arranged  in  eight  tiers.  From 


268  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

the  floor  of  the  car  the  tomb  of  Mary,  a  great 
sarcophagus  in  anything  but  mourning  colors, 
gleams  with  red,  yellow,  green,  pink  and  blue,  and 
carries  a  huge  M  on  one  side.  Above  this  comes 
what  is  meant  to  be  a  mass  of  fleecy  clouds  among 
which  peep  the  heads  of  cherubs.  The  clouds  are 
done  in  yellow  picked  out  with  black. 

Above  the  clouds  comes  a  great  triple  wheel  in 
red,  gold,  green  and  pink,  set  vertically.  Then  two 
ranks  more  of  clouds;  then  a  second  wheel  not  so 
large  as  the  first,  but  rayed  like  a  sun  with  spokes  of 
many  colors;  then  a  third  wheel  in  blue  and  gold. 
Above  these  a  crown  in  red  and  gold  supports  a 
blue  globe,  which  in  its  turn  bears  a  tall  gold  cross 
and  banner. 

The  base  of  the  car  is  adorned  with  a  balustrade 
of  columns  in  gold  and  white  paper.  All  the  decora- 
tions are  flimsy  paper  and  cardboard  on  a  frame- 
work of  cane. 

The  twenty-five  boys  who  sing  the  verses,  the 
"praises  of  the  Madonna,"  bound  to  this  structure, 
are  kept  nearly  fasting  as  a  precaution  against 
nausea  and  dizziness.  They  get  a  little  dry  food, 
biscuits  and  cheese,  but  no  fluids,  for  a  whole  day 
previous  to  the  procession.  They  look  as  if  they 
were  twelve  or  thirteen  years  old.  They  are  re- 
quired to  confess  and  take  communion  before  put- 
ting on  their  gala  clothes.  In  former  days  many 
accidents  are  said  to  have  taken  place,  but  now  the 
car  is  better  built,  or  possibly  Maria  is  more  vig- 


THE  CAR  OF  MARY  AT  RANDAZZO    269 

ilant.  The  boys  mount  to  their  places  by  ladders 
set  against  the  church  wall,  and  are  well  fastened, 

"It  is  a  most  ancient  tradition,"  said  a  man  who 
seemed  to  have  in  charge  the  ornamentation  of  the 
car.  "Give  her  a  turn  or  two,  and  let  the  lady  see 
how  it  works,"  he  called  to  the  men  who  were  busy 
tacking  paper  jars  of  flowers  in  place. 

Obedient  to  the  command,  the  men  dropped  their 
tasks  and  turned  the  levers  that  made  the  tall  mast 
revolve  in  its  socket,  carrying  around  and  around 
the  tomb,  the  clouds  and  the  great  wheels.  The 
fantasies  are  bedecked  with  much  isinglass  which 
sparkles  as  it  turns. 

The  car  is  backed  up  against  the  sacristy  next  the 
apse  of  the  Matrice  between  two  scaffolds,  with 
ladders  at  the  sides.  The  work  of  trimming  it  is 
going  on  busily  when  I  arrive;  a  crowd  of  people 
are  watching.  The  head  mechanician  takes  me  in- 
side the  enclosure  to  show  me  the  works,  assuring 
me  there  is  no  danger,  though  when  the  wind  blows 
and  the  tall  mast  sways  it  may  look  perilous.  The 
boys,  he  says,  are  well  tied.  For  them  it  is  im 
giuoco.  They  enjoy  it,  and  they  get  a  lira  for  their 
pains. 

"Another  turn  or  two;"  and  the  mast  groans 
and  creaks  and  revolves  experimentally;  revolves 
vertically  as  it  swings  in  its  circle,  and  the  mechan- 
ician looks  on  proud  of  his  job.  There  is  nothing 
like  it,  he  says,  anywhere  else  in  the  world. 

The  base  cart  or  box  is  heavily  framed  of  wood 


2  70  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

and  iron ;  it  runs  on  low,  small  wheels,  and  from  the 
floor  descends  a  well,  in  which  stands  the  iron- 
bound  mast.  Under  the  floor  on  their  cramped  seats 
crouch  the  four  men  who  push  the  iron  handles 
that  spring  from  the  iron  ring  encircling  the  mast, 
and  make  it  turn. 

As  the  hour  for  the  procession  approaches  the 
boys  scramble  up  the  ladders  and  one  by  one  are 
fastened  into  their  placeq.  On  the  great  triple  wheel 
each  lad  is  tied  into  an  iron  belt,  while  his  feet  are 
bound  to  iron  footholds.  Most  of  them  look  like 
caricatures  of  mediaeval  knights,  with  helmets, 
slashed  doublets  and  hose;  marionette  figures 
copied  out  of  the  "Reali  di  Francia,"  but  without  the 
armor  of  fighting  men.  Their  colors  are  as  gay  as 
the  isinglass  paper — pink,  green,  blue,  yellow,  etc. 
Their  pink  fleshings,  doublets  and  cloaks  have  seen 
service  and  do  not  fit;  but  the  boys  make  up  in 
enthusiasm  for  all  deficiencies. 

The  scene  at  the  finish  is  a  riot  of  enthusiasm,  as 
the  boys  scramble  up  the  ladders.  Tying  them  in 
takes  time.  Clouds  are  gathering,  but  the  people 
say  it  cannot  rain;  the  Madonna  will  not  permit. 
Everyone  is  explaining  to  his  neighbor  all  about 
the  carro.  One  says  the  figures  on  the  car  in  the 
procession  at  Messina  before  the  earthquake  were 
nothing  but  papier-mache.  In  Naples  they  make  a 
procession  with  a  car  in  the  form  of  a  ship,  but  it 
has  not  the  significance  of  this,  which  sets  forth 
the  Ascension  of  Maria  into  Heaven. 


THE  CAR  OF   MARY  AT  RANDAZZO    271 

At  the  very  top  is  the  boy  Maria  in  a  blue  robe 
by  the  side  of  the  Padre  Eterno,  who  wears  a  beard 
and  carries  a  cross.  Two  or  three  angels  are  in  at- 
tendance. On  the  wheels  are  boy  angels  in  the  at- 
titude of  flight.  Below  among  the  clouds  are  cherubs 
and  groups  figuring  scenes  from  the  Bible.  The 
archangel  Michael,  with  his  sword,  is  dressed  in 
red.   Guarding  the  tomb  are  Roman  soldiers. 

There  is  intense  excitement  as  the  last  touch  is 
given.  At  a  signal  from  the  attendant  priests  the 
boys  begin  to  sing — 

Bedda  Signura,  Matri  Maria, 
Evviva  la  Vara,  .... 

What  follows  of  the  lodi  is  lost  in  the  wild  cheers 
that  go  up  from  the  crowd.  Little  cannon  explode. 
The  mast  sways  in  the  wind  as  it  begins  to  revolve, 
groaning  and  squeaking.  The  great  triple  wheel 
turns  slowly,  then  faster,  as  the  car  swings  out 
from  its  place  between  the  scaffolds,  and  is  pulled 
and  pushed  by  hundreds  of  hands  towards  the  main 
street,  the  Corso  Umberto. 

It  is  an  amazing  sight — the  shining  car,  the  gay 
tomb  of  the  Madonna  supported  by  the  angels,  by 
tall  vases  of  gelatine  paper  flowers;  the  three  re- 
volving wheels,  the  second  of  which  swings  higher 
than  the  roofs  of  the  low  houses,  the  singing  boys 
whirling  perilously  in  air,  the  isinglass  and  tinsel 
glittering  as  the  dazzling  procession  takes  up  its 
march  in  the  sunset  light  through  the  length  of  the 


2  72  BY-PATHS   IN  SICILY 

town.  People  lean  from  balconies  and  roofs  de- 
lirious with  excitement. 

The  whole  population  of  the  town  follows  the 
glittering  car  towards  the  dazzle  of  the  sunset,  the 
gloria  rung  by  the  bells  of  each  church,  as  it  ap- 
proaches, heralding  its  passage.  At  the  west  end 
of  the  town,  under  the  Norman  campanile  of  San 
Martino,  the  car  halts  and  turns;  its  return  must 
be  accomplished  before  the  passing  of  the  summer 
twilight,  for  the  electric  light  wires  have  been  re- 
moved to  give  room  for  its  passage. 

Once  again  at  a  stand  in  the  open  space  behind 
the  apse  of  Santa  Maria,  there  begins  a  frenzied 
work  of  spoliation.  "They  grab  off  all  the  fan- 
tasies," says  the  lame  man  at  my  side;  and  indeed 
the  boy  angels  are  casting  themselves  upon  every 
bit  of  ornamentation  within  reach,  pulling  in  pieces 
the  yellow  clouds,  wrenching  away  the  cardboard 
cherubs,  stripping  from  the  wheels  the  gaudy  sun- 
rays  and  casting  them  to  the  crowd,  which  fights 
for  the  scraps  to  be  preserved  as  charms  for  an  en- 
tire year,  until  there  are  other  rags  of  another  festa 
to  be  fought  for. 

The  angels,  as  is  meet,  keep  for  themselves  the 
best.  At  the  top  of  the  mast  little  boy  blue  Maria 
is  scuffling  with  the  Eternal  Father  for  pink  paste- 
board cherubs.  The  two  attendant  angels  watch 
their  chance  to  rob  both,  but  Maria  gets  the  better 
of  all  three  and  remains  triumphant  with  his  arms 
full  of  chubby  heads  and  spreading  wings. 


1 


Tying  the  Boys  in  Place,  and  Detail  of  the  Car 


THE  CAR  OF  MARY  AT  RANDAZZO    273 

When  the  mast  has  been  rifled,  It  is  pushed  back 
between  the  scaffolds  against  the  wall  of  the 
sagrestia,  and  the  work  of  untying  the  boys  begins 
Each,  as  he  is  released  from  his  iron  belt,  stands 
a  moment,  cramped  and  stiff,  then  slowly  clambers 
down, 

"Were  you  pleased  with  the  festa?"  asks  Saitta, 
proud,  happy,  sure  of  my  answer,  limping  en- 
thusiastically at  my  side  as  we  hurry  to  the  convent 
of  the  Cappucini  to  get  a  closer  look  at  the  boys  be- 
fore they  have  time  to  strip  off  their  angel  robes. 
Tired,  sweaty,  dirty,  the  band  of  angels  lies  on  the 
grass  in  what  was  once  the  garden  of  the  cloisters. 
"Tired?  Yes,  Signura;  very  tired." 

And  frightened  ?  Maria  laughs  at  the  idea.  Maria 
is  never  afraid  of  anything!  "Disconcerted?"  Well, 
a  little  nauseated,  just  at  first. 

Maria  is  a  chunky  boy,  as  blond  as  a  Swede,  with 
yellow  hair  and  colorless  white  skin.  In  the  scuffle 
for  the  cherubs  his  blue  mantle  has  been  twitched  to 
one  side,  the  golden  halo  is  awry,  his  pale  blue  eyes 
still  gleam  with  berserker  battle  light  as  he  hugs 
the  torn  and  ragged  prizes. 

The  riches  of  Santa  Maria,  which  pay  for  these 
religious  rites,  were  inherited  from  the  Catanese 
baroness  Giovanella  de  Ouattro,  who  died  in  1506, 
leaving  her  entire  property  to  this  church.  The  boys 
come  together  in  the  morning  of  every  August  15th 
at  San  Domenico,  where  in  one  of  the  rooms  of  the 


274  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

antique  convent  they  put  on  the  robes  kept  for  the 
purpose. 

The  spectacle  of  this  car,  painted  with  a  thousand 
colors,  from  which  hang  those  clusters  of  little 
whirling  creatures,  is  something  which  recalls  not 
so  much  the  Middle  Ages  as  the  customs  of  more 
distant  places  and  barbaric  times.  It  is  a  sort  of 
car  of  Moloch  and  of  Vishnu  which,  if  it  does  not 
reek  with  human  blood,  yet  costs  a  sacrifice.  Those 
angels,  those  miniature  warriors,  are  kept  fasting 
from  the  previous  day;  they  undergo  hunger,  nau- 
sea and  fear  gladly  for  the  honor  and  the  fame. 

The  vara  of  Messina,  which  Randazzo  scorns, 
dates  from  the  sixteenth  century  or  earlier;  in 
"Feste  Patronali,"  Pitre  says  much  earlier  than 
1535.  When  the  Imperatore  Carlo  V  entered  Mes- 
sina in  triumph  after  the  Tunis  enterprise  one  of 
the  cars  that  came  out  to  meet  him  was  an  Assump- 
tion car,  with  Charles  and  Victory  substituted  for 
Maria  and  the  Eternal  Father.  In  1571  the  August 
festa  with  the  car  was  repeated  in  November  in 
honor  of  Don  John  of  Austria,  victor  at  Lepanto. 

Pitre  illustrates  the  car  as  seen  and  sketched  by 
the  French  artist  Huel  before  1784.  It  shows  cer- 
tain differences  from  the  car  of  recent  times.  The 
great  wheels  have  sun  faces  with  rays  as  spokes; 
the  angels  stand  on  clouds;  Maria  is  held  in  the 
hand  of  the  Eternal  Father.  There  are  only  two 
banks  of  clouds. 

Pitre  also  illustrates  the  car  as  it  was  in  the  first 


THE  CAR  OF  MARY  AT  RANDAZZO    275 

half  of  the  nineteenth  century,  with  clouds  and  sun 
faces.  He  speaks  of  the  moon  and  earth;  and  the 
earth  is  obvious.  There  are  apostles,  angels,  arch- 
angels, cherubim.  The  Padre  Eterno  is  represented 
by  a  man  with  a  beard,  cross  in  hand.  The  children 
are  attached  at  the  ends  of  the  principal  rays  of  the 
sun;  they  rise  and  fall  in  such  a  manner  as  always 
to  remain  erect,  like  those  on  the  wheel  of  fortune. 
The  angels  are  enjoying  the  triumph  of  the  Virgin. 

The  basic  ideas  of  the  car  may  be  confused: 
Mary  ascending  into  Heaven  mixed  up  in  naive 
incongruity  with  old  wheel  festivals  that  typify  the 
sun  and  his  fructifying  magic.  The  earth  and  the 
clouds,  the  sun  and  moon,  the  angels  and  "the  souls 
in  their  degree,"  all  are  in  place.  No  one  can  fall, 
since  the  city  and  the  festival  are  under  the  protec- 
tion of  Mary.  On  that  day,  at  least,  no  malignant 
spirit  can  walk  abroad,  seeking  to  do  mischiefs. 

Well,  it  is  over  for  the  year!  Randazzo  turns  to 
its  daily  problems  of  war  and  work. 

From  the  window  of  my  room  in  the  primitive 
hotel  I  look  over  the  red  tiled  roofs  of  the  city 
towards  Etna.  To  my  right  is  a  palace  with  a  fine 
double  window;  two  dark  arches  of  lava  in  a  dark 
facade;  beyond  is  the  refreshing  green  of  the  oaks 
of  the  town;  still  beyond,  the  great  mass  of  Etna, 
broad  of  base  as  seen  from  here. 

The  streets  are  gay  with  catch-penny  games. 
Half  a  dozen  men  have  set  up  marks  for  shooting. 
The  barker  nearest  me  has  a  wooden  box  which  he 


2  76  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

hangs  to  an  acacia  tree;  inside  are  crudely  painted 
figures  of  Turks  or  Arabs,  reminding  me  that  some 
of  the  streets  of  the  town  have  been  re-named  for 
the  TripoH  war — Ain-Zara,  etc.  The  weapon  is  a 
rude  cross-bow,  shooting  stones.  Another  man  has 
a  "miraculous  fish"  game.  You  pay  a  soldo  for  an 
envelope  containing  the  number  of  your  catch. 

At  another  pitch  are  tables  for  playing  the  ponies 
— gorgeous  nickel-plated  ponies  gaily  caparisoned, 
their  tails  in  air,  their  legs  prancing.  They  race 
under  belled  arches  round  and  round,  one  horse  car- 
rying a  tri-color  banner.  The  hard-faced  woman 
who  acts  as  starter  has  a  little  switch  to  keep  too 
importunate  customers  in  order.  She  is  not  barking, 
but  presently  her  place  is  taken  by  a  man  who  barks 
in  competition  with  the  other  ponies  under  the  next 
tree.  The  ponies  are  yellow,  green,  red  and  black. 
The  bannered  horse  carries  a  marker  that  ticks  the 
slate  of  the  barrier  fence.  The  circle  of  the  table  is 
divided  into  segments  of  the  four  colors,  each  seg- 
ment marked  by  radiating  lines  into  little  segments, 
where  painted  horses,  from  i  to  lo  in  number, 
gallop  briskly.  You  bet  on  your  color  and  win  as 
many  soldi  as  there  are  horses  of  your  color  in  the 
little  segments  where  the  banner  stops.  The  barker 
cries:  "Green,  color  of  hope;  yellow,  color  of  gold; 
the  Red  Cavalier  gains !  The  Black  Cavalier  wins !" 

It  is  hard  to  get  anything  to  eat  at  the  little  hotel ; 
at  night  they  seemed  to  think  I  had  had  enough  at 
noon.  At  noon  they  had  refused  me  chicken,  though 


THE  CAR  OF   MARY  AT  RANDAZZO    277 

I  could  see  fowl  upon  the  tables.  The  guests  had 
brought  their  own.  At  last  an  old  man  reluctantly 
pokes  his  head  out  of  the  kitchen  and  offers  me 
asparagus  omelet,  bread  and  nespoli. 

While  I  eat,  the  daughter  of  the  house  tells  me 
that  the  women  in  nun-like  dress  I  have  noticed  are 
"monache  di  casa,"  home-staying  nuns,  of  different 
orders.  For  ITmmaculata  the  dress  is  celeste  with 
a  white  girdle  and  a  long  white  wool  shawl  or  scarf, 
with  a  white  band  across  the  forehead.  The  Car- 
melite dress  is  coffee-colored,  with  a  black  shawl. 
These  nuns  call  one  another  sister,  and  help  one 
another.  They  live  at  home  but  occupy  themselves 
with  their  devotion,  much  as  if  in  a  convent.  Not 
many  women  now  become  home-nuns,  but  always 
some;  "there  is  always  religion."  The  old  mon- 
asteries and  convents  of  Randazzo  have  now  been 
turned  into  schools;  one  is  a  factory;  one  the  post 
office. 

I  rose  early  to  take  a  carriage  for  Maniaca,  a 
matter  not  to  be  arranged  without  difficulty.  Finally 
I  start  with  Pietro,  the  waiter,  on  foot.  He  has 
missed  his  morning  coffee  and  is  ill-natured.  But 
the  way  is  beautiful,  Etna  in  deep  blue. 

To  the  right  as  we  climb  out  of  the  paese  rises  a 
chain  of  mountains.  The  Mountain  of  the  Wood  of 
Maria  belongs  to  the  church  of  Santa  Maria,  the 
church  of  the  car,  which  Pietro  says  is  enormously 
rich;  it  has  an  income  of  700  lire  per  day — which 
must  be  a  mistake — and  thus  is  able  to  celebrate  its 


278  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

great  festa  every  year.  Beyond  is  the  Monte  Flas- 
cio.  We  pass  a  desolate  lava  tract  where  it  is  hard 
to  understand  why  anybody  should  live;  but  there 
is  almost  a  village.  It  is  "for  the  convenience," 
Pietro  says.  There  are  several  new  houses  going 
up;  houses  built  of  the  lava  itself,  sometimes  in 
large  part  excavated  in  the  black  lava  rock,  their 
roofs  of  red  tile  very  little  above  the  ground  level. 
A  party  of  men  on  muleback  overtake  us,  and  with- 
out ceremony,  offer  us  a  mount.  We  ask  them  about 
the  way  to  Maniaca;  it  is  obviously  impossible  to 
walk  there  and  catch  my  afternoon  train,  so  we 
turn  off  toward  Maletto  on  the  hill  to  our  left. 

Our  new  way  leads  for  three  or  four  kilos  along 
a  rough  track  up  a  lava  flow;  but  before  this  is  a 
strip  of  clayey  soil,  wet  in  winter,  split  by  cracks 
in  summer,  poor  land.  The  lava  is  old  and  rough, 
almost  as  desert  as  it  is  twenty  years  after  an  erup- 
tion. The  path  is  worn  into  hollows  by  the  feet  of 
mules,  yet  lonely  as  it  is  desolate.  In  an  hour's 
tramp  we  see  two  men.  There  are  ring  markings 
on  the  lava  as  if  it  had  stiffened  in  waves  while 
cooling.  Where  bubbles  of  lava  broke  are  grottoes 
sometimes  big  enough  for  sheep  pens.  Now  and 
then  a  few  square  meters  of  soil  have  softened 
enough  to  permit  of  a  patch  of  culture. 

Not  far  from  Maletto  is  a  wee  trickle  of  water 
to  our  left  where  women  are  washing  linen  and 
spreading  it  to  bleach.  The  village  itself  is  of  per- 
haps 4000  souls,  dominated  by  the  ruins  of  an  old 


THE  CAR  OF  MARY  AT  RANDAZZO    279 

castle.  Some  of  its  streets  are  arched,  making  pas- 
sages like  those  in  Berne.  The  conspicuous  church 
is  that  of  the  patron,  Sant'  Antonino. 

People  gaze  as  we  wander,  looking  for  something 
to  eat.  We  go  at  last  into  a  clean  looking  house 
where  the  woman  conducts  us  from  the  shop  into 
a  back  room,  and  sends  out  a  boy  to  buy  us  pro- 
visions. He  comes  back  with  a  bit  of  meat,  and 
her  husband  cooks  it  for  us  over  a  portable  stove 
that  stands  outside  on  the  balcony,  overlooking 
another  narrow  street.  The  woman  spreads  a  sheet 
over  a  small  table  and  brings  out  bread,  cheese, 
sausage  and  scalora. 

I  bargain  with  a  carrettiere  to  take  us  back  to 
Randazzo.  Pietro  has  given  out.  Stefano,  the 
carter,  ties  two  chairs  in  his  cart  and  harnesses  a 
white  mule,  Concettina,  very  slow  and  sedate,  who 
is  said  to  have  a  very  beautiful  harness,  but  it  is 
used  on  days  of  festa  only. 

Stefano  is  middle-aged,  brown  and  wholesome 
looking.  He  comes  from  Aderno,  but  has  been  six- 
teen years  at  Maletto,  and  does  not  want  to  go  to 
America;  he  has  his  cart,  his  mule  and  his  wife; 
what  more  could  a  man  want?  He  believes  in  the 
miracles  of  Sant'  Alfio;  has  seen  a  dumb  girl  made 
to  speak  after  three  pilgrimages  made  in  three  suc- 
cessive years. 

Pietro  goes  to  sleep.  The  sun  comes  out,  making 
the  day  glorious.  Stefano  urges  me  to  get  out  of 
the  chair  and  make  myself  more  comfortable  on 


28o  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

the  sheepskin  rug  on  the  floor  of  the  cart,  which 
bumps  and  jars  over  stones  and  rough  places. 

At  times  Stef ano  sings ;  at  times  we  talk  of  Etna, 
always  in  plain  view,  and  its  terrors.  We  talk  of 
bandits ;  there  are  said  to  be  few,  though  many  men 
in  the  lonely  country  carry  rifles,  Pietro  thinks 
they  have  learned  that  in  order  to  eat  it  is  necessary 
to  work.  We  talk  of  the  Duke  of  Bronte,  Admiral 
Nelson's  English  heir  and  successor  in  that  vast 
estate.  The  Duke's  men  never  leave  him  and  are 
mostly  old.  His  service  is  well  liked.  The  gardens 
of  the  estate  are  very  beautiful,  and  everything  is 
well  administered.  And,  so  talking,  we  jog  along 
back  to  the  little  albergo  just  in  time  to  pay  my  bill 
and  catch  my  train. 

If  I  had  listened  to  Stef  ano  I  should  have  had  to 
stay  another  night  in  Randazzo;  he  had  suggested 
that  I  get  down  from  the  cart  as  we  approached 
the  town,  thinking  I  might  not  like  to  enter  in  so 
rural  a  vehicle. 

Considering  the  inn,  that  would  have  been  to  pay 
dearly  for  sinful  pride! 


CHAPTER  VI 
"Red  Pelts"  at  Castrogiovanni 

At  the  end  of  May  I  have  seen  the  men  wrapped  up  in 
a  mantle  which  hides  their  faces  and  rises  above  their  heads 
like  a  cap;  and  the  women,  like  the  men,  .  .  .  swathe 
themselves  in  a  mantle  which  they  clutch  with  one  hand 
under  the  chin. — Gaston  Vuillier. 

Castrogiovanni  is  a  little  over  3,000  feet  up  in 
the  air,  and  I  have  never  seen  it  really  warm.  Past 
the  middle  of  May,  the  time  of  which  Vuillier 
writes,  a  season  elsewhere  of  bare  brown  earth  and 
sun-baked  herbage,  I  once  more  found  the  mountain 
much  of  the  time  bathed  in  fog;  why  do  they  hold 
the  greatest  animal  fair  in  Sicily  high  in  the  clouds  ? 

Possibly  because  it  is  the  center  of  the  earth — 
Enna  of  the  ancients,  Kasr  Jani  of  the  Arabs,  half- 
way house  between  East  and  West,  the  famous 
fighting  ground  for  men  from  both  sides.  It  is  a 
city  in  the  shape  of  a  horse-shoe,  a  rocky  nest,  with 
a  steep  valley  in  the  middle.  One  sees  old  palaces 
here  and  there,  relics  of  former  strength,  huge  for- 
tress-like structures  of  squared  stone  blocks  with 
few  windows,  more  like  the  mediaeval  palaces  of 
Florence  than  the  plaster  ones  of  Catania.    These 

281 


282  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

fortresses  and  the  imposing  churches  contrast  with 
streets  that  are  not  streets,  but  narrow  ways  among 
the  rocks,  worn  by  the  men,  the  mules  and  the 
carts  that  have  passed  there  hundreds,  thousands 
of  years — for  no  one  knows  when  the  first  men 
came. 

The  people  are  the  most  interesting  I  have  seen 
in  Sicily;  the  men  darker  and  leaner  than  those  of 
the  lowlands,  clad  in  dark  blue  hoods  and  coats; 
the  women  with  pure  oval  faces,  olive  complexions 
and  red  cheeks,  and  with  black  hair;  of  the  Greek 
type,  perhaps;  in  any  case,  beautiful.  There  is  also 
a  type  almost  African  in  tint  and  feature,  with  skin 
extremely  dark  and  hair  kinky  as  well  as  black, 
black!  They  wear  a  black  mantellina  or  a  heavy 
black  shawl,  and  they  crowd  about  the  doorways  to 
look  at  us.    Visitors  are  not  many. 

Yesterday  I  saw  a  wedding  procession.  Walk- 
ing in  front  was  the  bride  with  her  two  sisters,  all 
in  handsome  dresses  of  dove-colored  brocade,  rich 
and  heavy,  with  black  silk  embroidered  shawls  hung 
with  long,  rich  fringe.  Their  heads  were  bare.  Be- 
hind the  bride  came  her  female  relatives  and 
friends,  all  in  peasant  dress,  with  black  headker- 
chiefs  and  dark  clothes.  Behind  these  was  the  pro- 
cession of  the  men,  led  by  the  bridegroom  between 
two  friends,  two  or  three  dozen  others  following. 
Paper  confetti  were  thrown  from  the  doors. 

"There  they  are  marrying  a  bride,"  said  the  boy 
who  guided  us,  in  his  imperfect  Italian. 


"RED  PELTS"  AT  CASTROGIOVANNI    283 

Stupidly  I  asked  which  was  the  bride,  and  the 
sisters,  hearing,  pointed  out  the  pretty  girl  in  the 
middle  whose  eyes  were  red  from  weeping.  Peasants 
never  wear  orange  blossoms  or  put  on  white  for 
weddings.  The  gray  brocade  is  a  gala  dress  for  a 
lifetime,  and  the  embroidered  shawl  the  most 
treasured  of  possessions. 

There  are  here  in  Castrogiovanni  the  usual 
Madonna  legends;  one  is  of  an  image  found  drift- 
ing in  the  sea  and  towed  to  land  by  sailors.  It  was 
put  on  an  ox-cart,  when  the  oxen  without  guidance 
brought  it  to  Castrogiovanni.  At  her  festa  in  July 
men  dressed  as  reapers  with  shirt  outside  the 
trousers  carry  this  Madonna  from  the  Mother 
Church  to  the  convent,  where  it  remains  for  thirteen 
to  fifteen  days — every  day  a  festa — and  people  come 
from  far  to  pay  their  devotions. 

A  kindly  old  woman  told  us  that  here  in  Castro- 
giovanni is  the  belief  that  some  day  the  Madonna 
must  appear  in  person  at  the  Franceschini  church 
— la  Madonna  della  Visitazione.  Her  church  in 
Rome  has  been  shaken  by  an  earthquake,  a  sign 
that  she  must  leave  it  and  come  here;  the  Pope 
must  come  also,  with  all  the  devout  of  earth,  and 
so  Castrogiovanni  will  become  once  more  Enna,  the 
center  of  civilization.  In  the  church,  of  a  usual  bare 
plaster  type,  a  sacristan  showed  us  the  body  of 
Angelo  Musico,  a  frate  of  Caltagirone  who  died 
two  centuries  ago,  whose  relics  have  worked  mir- 
acles and  who  some  day  may  become  a  saint.   The 


284  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

corpse,  that  of  a  toothless  man  of  seventy-two 
years,  a  wierd  spectacle,  is  preserved  in  the  habit 
of  the  order,  with  cord  and  staff. 

Beyond  the  garden  of  the  convent  one  looks  out 
over  a  prospect  second  only  to  that  of  the  Castello ; 
over  an  endless  succession  of  hills  blue  in  the  azure 
shadows  of  the  scirocco;  blue,  blue  hills  without 
end.  Never  a  road,  but  hills,  hills,  hills — and  nes- 
tling among  them  the  lake  of  Pergusa,  fishless  for 
its  sins. 

This  Lago  Pergusa  is  the  spot  from  which  Pluto 
bore  away  Persephone.  Legend  says  it  was  once 
full  of  fish;  good  ones.  Two  rotoli  of  fish  were 
vowed  every  year  to  the  Saviour  by  the  men  who 
leased  the  fishing,  but  they  were  not  paid,  so  the 
lake  was  caused  to  yield  only  tiny  fish  not  worth 
taking.    And  so,  shamed  and  accursed,  it  remains. 

At  sunset,  from  the  old  Castello,  now  a  prison, 
there  is  a  view  of  the  snows  of  Etna  and  of  the 
Madonni  mountains,  also  snow-capped;  a  view  of 
the  lower  lying  Salascibetta;  views  of  interminable 
wastes  of  wheat  and  fave,  dark  green  and  light 
green,  spaced  by  black  cypress  trees  in  groups  of 
two  like  carabinieri.  Near  the  town  a  few  fruit 
trees,  pears  and  cherries  and  quince,  with  now  and 
then  an  apple  tree,  are  seen.  But  for  the  most  part 
wheat  and  fave  alone  speak  of  culture  and  give  the 
tone  to  the  landscape.  Sterile  and  deserted  the  land 
looks,  sand  showing  between  the  grain;  there  are 


"RED  PELTS"  AT  CASTROGIOVANNI    285 

few  roads  and  no  signs  of  life  on  them;  everybody 
lives  in  the  town  and  homes  early  these  long  days. 

A  strange  town  it  is — 60,000  people  with  one 
weekly  journal,  less  a  newspaper  than  a  Socialist 
circular;  with  one  kiosque  where  out-of-town  papers 
are  sold;  with  a  decent  public  library,  not  large — 
and  a  gun  shop  in  every  block.  Small  boys  on  the 
steps  of  blacksmith  shops  finish  off  bullets  moulded 
in  the  old  fashion,  and  trim  away  with  nippers  the 
strips  of  lead  in  which  they  are  imbedded. 

I  do  not  know  whether  to  be  more  disturbed  by 
the  Bowery  manners  of  these  Sicilians  who  have 
been  in  America  or  the  excessive  politeness  of  older 
people  who  have  stayed  at  home.  In  the  street  yes- 
terday a  girl  saluted  me  with,  "Say,  mister,  how 
do?"  I  asked  if  she  could  not  use  better  English 
and  she  explained,  "I  no  speaka  much.  I  back  three 
years."  She  had  lived  four  years  in  Brooklyn,  near 
Coney  Island,  and  would  like  to  go  again,  but 
Babbo  "no  want,  because  he  got  store  now." 
Father's  store,  set  up  with  Brooklyn  money,  is  a 
hole  in  the  wall  where  tobacco,  wine  and  flour  are 
sold,  with  spaghetti  and  other  indispensables. 

On  the  other  hand,  there  was  the  old  woman  who 
was  picking  up  manure  in  her  hands  for  her  grand- 
children's garden.  She  looked  eighty  years  old, 
dodging  about  the  heels  of  the  donkeys.  But  when 
I  made  her  acquaintance  her  pity  was  for  me,  not 
herself.  She  smiled  and  said,  "Give  me  your  bless- 
ing!" the  common  salutation  to  a  superior,  some- 


286  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

times  improved  to  "Your  Excellency,  bless  me!" 
And  she  went  on:  "Are  you  quite  alone,  Your 
Ladyship?"  A  bystander  helped  her  lift  the  basket 
of  manure  to  her  head  and  she  walked  with  me 
toward  the  church,  a  stately  model  of  courtesy  to- 
ward a  stranger. 

Better  excuse  for  keeping  long  awake  who  could 
ask  than  the  unceasing  song  of  the  nightingale? 
This  morning  there  was  Etna,  white  with  mist  half 
way  to  the  top;  then  a  band  of  blue,  and  then  the 
pearl-white  snow  and  the  deep  shadows  of  the 
summit,  almost  more  beautiful,  more  dream-like, 
than  from  Taormina.   And  beyond  Etna  the  sea. 

But  for  morning  sounds,  to  ears  that  had  heark- 
ened over-long  to  Philomel,  there  came  a  sudden 
clamor  of  bells,  jingled  by  cows,  oxen,  asses,  mules 
and  horses  climbing  up  from  below  in  procession. 
I  did  not  know  there  were  in  Sicily  so  many  an- 
imals. The  plain  of  the  mountain  was  black  with 
them.  It  is  strange  how  black  the  "red  beasts"  can 
be  when  massed  together  with  fog  blurring  their 
outlines  at  a  distance,  as  at  intervals  it  did  in  the 
early  morning. 

From  the  church  of  Monte  Salvo  down  and  up 
the  hills  and  beyond  on  each  side  were  these  black 
masses  of  cattle,  tethered,  hobbled,  free.  I  never 
reached  the  limits  of  them ;  I  don't  know  how  many 
acres  there  were ;  always  more  black  masses  in  view. 
Where  do  all  the  animals  go  at  night? — some  are 
sheltered  in  the  ground  floors  of  houses;  many 


"RED  PELTS"  AT  CASTROGIOVANNI    287 

must  stay  at  the  Inn  of  the  Beautiful  Stars.  The 
forage,  largely  clover  in  flower,  is  brought  on  the 
backs  of  asses. 

For  the  men,  there  are  two  or  three  barracks  of 
poles  covered  with  canvas,  sheltering  tables  and 
portable  stoves.  Most  of  the  guests  pull  from  their 
pockets  bread  and  a  bit  of  cheese.  There  is  not  yet 
such  an  abundance  of  trinkets  for  sale  as  at  a  f esta ; 
no  dried  chick-peas  or  sweets;  a  man's  affair  it  is, 
and  strictly  business.  Two  or  three  men  are  selling 
knives — which  here  may  be  necessaries.  Each  car- 
ries a  stout  piece  of  cane  into  which  the  knives  are 
stuck,  the  handles  pointing  up.  "American  knives," 
they  call ;  "genuine  American  knives." 

Not  that  relaxation  is  wholly  lacking.  A  young 
fellow  has  a  fortune-telling  stand;  in  a  column  of 
water  little  figures  sink  and  rise;  one  comes  to  the 
surface  and  brings  your  fortune  in  a  slip  of  paper. 
An  old  man  brought  me  his,  asking  me  to  read  it. 
It  said  he  had  had  many  misfortunes,  had  suffered 
much  but  should  not  despair.  His  distant  friend 
was  well  and  would  come  home.  He  must  not  trust 
all  who  would  speak  smooth  words  to  him ;  he  had 
false  friends.  But  things  were  coming  his  way  and 
he  would  live  to  be  seventy-four  years  old.  The 
brown,  lean  old  fellow  asked  eagerly  if  all  this  was 
true.  Could  he  trust  it?  Voscenza  would  know. 
He  thanked  me  gratefully. 

The  bargaining  is  most  animated.  There  is  much 
opening  of  animals'  mouths  to  read  the  record  of 


SL. 


288  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

the  teeth;  much  lifting  of  saddles  for  possible  galls 
to  show ;  much  heated  argument.  When  a  price  dis- 
pute becomes  acute  the  seller  will  swear  that  he  will 
give  away  the  animal — ^here  a  magnificent  gesture! 
— but  sell  below  his  price,  that  he  will  not,  bear 
witness  the  old  gods! 

There  are  splendid  big  mules  with  handsome 
trappings  and  saddle-cloths;  a  few  fine  horses; 
rough-coated  young  mules,  fifty  in  a  bunch.  The 
bands  of  color  on  the  saddle-bags  are  strips  of  red 
wool  with  applied  embroidery  of  set  designs,  scrolls 
and  arabesques  in  green  and  yellow  and  white  wool 
stitched  down  with  crewel.  The  broad  tail-piece  is 
decorated  similarly.  The  ornamentation  covers  one 
end  of  the  saddle-cloth  and  the  lower  ends  of  the 
pack-saddle.  At  each  side  is  a  strip  of  red.  Some- 
times the  pack-saddle  has  gay  red  wool  corners; 
sheepskins  are  often  used  as  saddle-cloths.  A  horse 
fully  loaded  with  basto,  saddle-cloths  and  saddle- 
bags is  "caricato." 

Men  with  the  air  of  masters,  attended  by  guards 
and  foremen,  look  over  the  animals.  Most  of  them 
are  dark,  lean  and  sinewy,  with  high  cheekbones, 
foreheads  lined,  eyes  keen  and  alert,  squinting  from 
the  sun.  The  noses  are  straight  or  aquiline,  the 
brows  straight  and  heavy.  Every  man  carries  a 
staff  or  goad  stick,  and  the  guards  have  double- 
barreled  guns  on  their  shoulders  or,  if  mounted, 
carried  in  front  on  the  saddle.  In  "making  proof" 
of  an  animal  the  herdsmen  ride  like  Arabs  or  like 


"RED  PELTS"  AT  CASTROGIOVANNI    289 

cowboys.  A  group  of  them  silhouetted  on  the  sky- 
line moving  at  a  gallop  is  a  wild  picture. 

Women  appear  and  set  up  shop  for  the  hungry. 
One  has  loaded  a  lemon  basket  with  her  wares. 
Another  balances  on  her  head  a  great  water-jar.  A 
third  has  a  heavy  cooking  pot  full  of  onions.  Bar- 
gaining is  as  keen  as  the  hunger.  Curiously,  the 
onions  come  from  the  shore ;  they  say  it  is  too  cold 
for  them  to  thrive  on  these  heights. 

There  Is  a  stir  in  the  crowd.  A  donkey  in  gay 
harness  clatters  wildly  towards  us.  Someone  is 
trying  out  a  donkey  before  accepting  him.  The  don- 
key bumps  into  a  mountain  of  onions  and  scatters 
them;  he  stampedes  a  bunch  of  sheep  that  have 
drawn  together  in  a  huddle,  their  patient  noses  to 
the  ground. 

"Holy  Patience!"  says  my  photographer  com- 
panion; "One  of  St.  Joseph's!"  A  "St.  Joseph's 
donkey"  is  a  special  breed,  small,  strong  and  bad- 
tempered,  mouse-colored  and  marked  with  two 
black  lines  that  form  a  cross,  one  stroke  down  the 
spine,  the  other  crossing  the  shoulders.  Later  in 
the  day  I  came  across  this  beast  and  his  purchaser. 
The  animal  cost  twenty  dollars  and  was  bought  for 
speedy  reselling. 

You  need  a  special  lingo  to  chaffer  at  a  fair.  It 
is  an  art. 

You  glance  at  an  animal,  refraining  from  show- 
ing deep  interest. 


ago  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

"Suit  you?"  asks  the  seller  with  equal  uncon- 
cern, but  politely. 

You  answer  with  a  little  grimace,  and  pass  on, 
paying  attention  to  other  animals.  After  a  time, 
wandering  back  into  the  neighborhood,  you  care- 
lessly ask  the  price. 

"One  hundred  lire." 

"Blood  of  Christ,"  is  a  mild  oath  at  a  fair.  Up 
go  your  hands  in  amazement.  You  hardly  trouble 
to  add:  "Now  if  you  had  said  fifty,  we  might  talk." 
The  other,  knowing  his  ground,  is  indifferent  to 
your  scorn. 

You  turn  as  if  to  go  away;  but  at  the  moment 
up  saunters  friend  Pietro,  a  judge  of  animals;  in 
fact,  an  agent.  He  also  glances  at  the  beast  and 
makes  some  slighting  remark.  Follows  the  agent  of 
the  owner,  a  poet  in  praise  of  the  animal.  Discourse 
becomes  animated.  What  looks  like  and  sometimes 
is  a  quarrel  may  result,  as  when  a  would-be  buyer 
tries  to  force  earnest  money,  to  bind  the  bargain, 
on  the  seller  against  his  will. 

In  one  group  we  watched  the  chaffering  over 
two  young  cows  and  a  restless  young  bull,  plunging 
and  tossing  his  rope,  I  noted  four  old  peasants,  the 
shawls  over  their  shoulders  in  stripes  of  black  and 
white  wool.  These  are  mountain  men,  with  brown, 
lined  faces,  skin  shoes  and  an  air  of  coming  from 
wide  spaces,  a  sharp  contrast  to  the  more  ordinary 
types  from  the  shore.  I  gather  that  they  are  from 
Limina.    Their  middleman  is  not  tactful;  he  dis- 


"RED  PELTS"  AT  CASTROGIOVANNI    291 

parages  the  judgment  of  the  other  agent  in  such 
fashion  that  the  seller  stalks  away,  angry.  The 
herdsman  himself  strides  after  him,  the  trouble  is 
patched  up,  earnest  money  taken  and  the  red  bull 
led  away. 

It  is  hot  now.  A  couple  of  girls  who  have  pigs 
in  charge  have  thrown  themselves  on  the  ground 
for  an  early  siesta,  each  pillowed  on  a  pig,  A  boy 
threads  his  way  in  and  out,  calling  pictures  of  the 
Madonna  of  the  Chain  for  two  cents.  A  blind 
ballad  singer  sets  up  a  broad  sheet  of  canvas  painted 
with  scenes  of  tortures  inflicted  by  Arabs  on  Italians 
in  Tripoli.  The  colors  are  greens,  blues,  yellows 
and  reds;  the  sketching  crude  but  spirited,  espe- 
cially the  sweep  from  heaven  of  the  rescuing  spirit, 
one  of  the  "souls  of  the  beheaded."  The  singer 
points  to  each  tableau  as  he  sings  of  the  episode  it 
pictures,  then  offers  printed  copies. 

It  is  eleven  o'clock  now,  and  the  meat  ovens  are 
being  drawn.  Inside  each  oven  one  sees  a  brown, 
sizzling  stack  of  flesh  and  bones,  with  rich  perfume 
escaping.  The  meat  is  sold  in  half  an  hour.  Beside 
each  oven  stands  a  crier,  a  long  form  in  his  hand 
and  on  the  trident  a  sheep's  head.  He  is  hoarsely 
calling:  "Roast  sheep!  Roast  sheep!  Better  than 
sweets!"  Men  stand  in  line  to  buy.  A  quarter  is 
the  usual  purchase,  for  the  sheep  are  small  and  a 
quarter  may  not  be  many  pounds.  Each  customer 
takes  his  portion  in  a  big  handkerchief  which  he 
knots  and  carries  off,  perhaps  to  one  of  the  luncheon 


C92  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

booths  that  have  sprung  up  in  the  shade  of  the 
lemon  trees  by  the  dry  stream  bed.  These  are  roofed 
and  sided,  hke  the  dry  goods  pavilions,  with  flower- 
ing branches  of  oleander  or  screens  of  split  and 
plaited  cane.  They  are  furnished  with  rough  tables 
and  benches,  and  the  keepers  sell  little  but  the  nec- 
essaries of  life — wine,  peasant  bread,  raw  onions, 
garlic,  Sicilian  cheese ;  but  it  is  understood  that  the 
patrons  will  for  the  most  part  bring  roast  sheep  and 
will  buy  only  bread  and  wine  to  complete  the 
Homeric  feast.  How  they  eat  meat,  these  Sicilians, 
when  they  do  eat  it,  as  if  storing  up  flesh  food  for 
months  when  they  do  not  see  it! 

Our  party  was  not  large — the  photographer,  his 
cousin,  Sambastiano,  a  friend  from  Limina,  a  man 
who  had  come  to  attend  a  flock  of  goats  a  cousin 
was  selling,  Mastro  Peppino,  two  children  and  my- 
self;  but  when  Mastro  Peppino  failed  to  get  more 
than  what  seemed  half  a  sheep,  distress  was  ob- 
vious. We  carried  our  baskets  out  of  the  crowd 
toward  a  spring  at  the  stream,  some  distance  from 
the  fair,  but  the  picnic  ground  we  had  known  in 
winter  was  sadly  changed.  For  lack  of  rain  the 
crops  had  failed,  only  yellow  stalks  sticking  up  out 
of  the  ground. 

We  sought  the  shade  and  Sambastiano  broke  up 
the  hot  meat.  "Excuse  my  hands,"  he  said;  "if  we 
send  to  buy  forks  the  meat  will  get  cold."  There 
was  bread  from  wheat  grown  on  Sambastiano's 
land,  and  ground  by  his  mother  in  a  hand-mill. 


"RED  PELTS"  AT  CASTROGIOVANNI    293 

There  was  no  butter,  but  "ricotta,"  buttermilk  curd 
dried  in  the  sun  and  baked,  food  for  Sicilian  gods. 
There  were  fresh  figs,  bought  at  the  fair;  the  early 
summer  figs,  sweeter  and  bigger  than  later  cullings. 
There  was  wine  pressed  from  Sambastiano's  grapes, 
not  more  than  a  year  old,  pure  and  delicious. 

While  we  ate  and  drank,  Don  Vincenzo  told 
stories.  Don  Vincenzo  is  the  Sindaco  of  Limina. 
Short,  dark,  fresh-complexioned,  plump,  bright- 
eyed  and  good-humored,  he  has  been  in  America 
and  come  home  well-to-do.  He  is  so  pronounced  a 
radical  that  he  has  caused  this  inscription  to  be 
picked  out  in  pebbles  on  the  front  of  his  house: 

"Here  lives   Vincenzo  ,    Socialist."     Yet   he 

directs  the  yearly  festa  of  San  Filippo,  whose 
miracles  are  the  marvel  of  Sicily.  In  short,  Don 
Vincenzo  is  a  man  of  the  world  and  a  good  picnic 
companion. 

After  we  had  eaten,  the  horses  were  put  to,  and 
we  set  off  down  the  break-neck  slope  with,  as  pres- 
ently appeared,  a  broken  rein,  but  a  whip  in  ex- 
cellent state,  along  with  carts,  mules,  donkeys  and 
a  stream  of  home-going  people,  personally  conduct- 
ing the  goats,  pigs  and  sheep  they  had  bought. 

The  washing  place  below  the  town  is  not  enclosed 
from  rain  and  cold,  and  we  stopped  to  commiserate 
with  the  washer-women  there.  But  they  would  have 
none  of  it.  What  would  you?  It  is  known  that 
one  must  work!  Below  is  a  watering  place  for 
animals,  busy  beyond  its  wont  with  the  needs  of 


294  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

the  newly  purchased  beasts.  A  water  carrier  there 
told  us  he  had  worked  in  America,  in  mines  near 
"Pittisborgo"  where  he  earned  ten  lire  a  day;  in 
Castrogiovanni  he  can  get  but  three,  and  not  always 
that.  But  his  wife  and  children  are  here.  And 
thereabouts  came  to  us  also  one  Lina  Potenza,  who 
had  been  four  years  in  America,  and  hopes  to  re- 
turn when  her  father  is  able  to  travel.  She  has  a 
brother  a  barber  in  New  York,  a  dressmaker  sister 
and  another  who  is  a  featherworker.  She  has  her- 
self, though  even  now  but  fourteen,  earned  six  dol- 
lars a  week  working  after  school  on  feathers  in 
New  York. 

Also,  I  regret  to  say,  there  were  boy  beggars.  I 
had  earlier  written  in  my  notes  that  no  beggars  ac- 
costed us  in  Castrogiovanni.  It  was  not,  in  fact, 
then  or  now  the  begging  season;  few  tourists  ever 
saw  the  fair  of  the  red  pelts. 

But  news  of  our  strange  taste  in  sights  must  have 
got  abroad ;  for  down  into  the  plains,  amid  the  low- 
ing and  whinnying  and  mooing  of  the  boughten 
beasts,  and  the  twittering  of  the  sparrows  keeping 
pace  above  them ;  down  past  the  miraculous  crucifix, 
a  steep  way  with  a  never-ending  procession  of 
women  and  donkeys  carrying  water ;  down  through 
fields  of  asphodel,  and  small  red  Adonis;  down  the 
white  ribbon  of  road  we  could  see  winding  for  miles 
ahead  of  us,  we  were  followed,  quite  in  the  fashion 
of  the  "Milordi"  travelers  of  tradition,  by  "Gimme 
a  penny !  Give  me  a  little  soldo !" 

So  were  the  proprieties  tardily  preserved. 


PART   III 
ISLAND   YESTERDAYS 


CHAPTER  I 
Etna  in  Anger 

Etna,  that  proud  and  lofty  head  of  Sicily. — Seneca. 

"Madre  Mia"  becomes  an  actual  personality,  terrible  or 
beautiful,  and  silently  worshiped.  The  Sicilian  peasants  are 
pagans  at  heart  in  their  regard  for  Mount  Etna. — William 
Sharp:  Three  Travel  Sketches. 

Terrible  or  beautiful,"  the  "actual  personality" 
of  Etna  stirred  in  his  sleep,  waking  the  countryside 
to  apprehension.  There  had  been  in  September  a 
lava  flow,  that  "unapproachable  river  of  purple 
fire";  and  still  in  January  the  mountain  grumbled. 
As  N and  I  drove  with  Salvatore  as  coach- 
man to  Castiglione — perched  on  its  rock,  facing  that 
side  of  Etna  from  which  the  lava  came  down — the 
flow  of  four  months  earlier  still  smoked  blue  and 
wierd  against  the  snow,  and  it  was  hard  to  believe 
it  was  not  still  moving. 

The  people  told  us  of  two  brothers  who  had 
great  wealth.  One,  when  the  lava  approached  his 
vineyards  and  thickets  of  filberts,  refused  to  let  the 
poor  gather  wood  or  help  themselves  to  what  could 
be  carried  off,  saying  that  if  the  lava  came  it  would 
come — that  was  fate — but  meanwhile  what  was  his 

297 


298  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

was  his.  He  lost  all  he  had,  buried  a  thousand 
years  deep.  The  other  vowed  his  year's  harvest  to 
the  Madonna  del  Carmine  if  his  yield  was  spared. 
The  lava  went  around  his  farm;  nothing  was 
touched — and  now  he  is  selling  his  crops  to  provide 
money  for  the  restoration  of  the  church. 

Some  little  girls  took  me  up  to  the  church  of  the 
Madonna  who  worked  this  miracle,  and  told  us  a 
tale  that  is  repeated  of  half  the  saints  of  Sicily. 
When  she  sees  that  her  people  are  in  danger  and 
wishes  to  come  out  in  procession  to  save  them,  the 
heavy  marble  statue  makes  itself  so  light  that  it  can 
be  moved  almost  at  finger-touch.  When  she  knows 
there  is  no  danger  she  makes  herself  so  heavy  she 
cannot  be  budged.  She  came  out  against  the  earth- 
quake of  Messina,  and  Castiglione  did  not  suffer. 
She  refused  to  come  out  when  Etna  threatened,  and 
the  lava  did  not  touch  the  town. 

We  had  been  too  hasty ;  Etna  bides  his  time ;  but 
two  months  later  the  eruptions  suddenly  assumed 
terrible  proportions.  And  from  Palermo  I  came 
hastening  back  to  Catania  for  another  ascent  to  the 
devouring  streams  of  fire. 

The  houses  you  pass  on  the  way  to  Nicolosi  are 
black  and  ugly,  built  all  of  lava  blocks,  but  they 
look  comfortable  and  I  saw  quantities  of  meat  for 
sale,  and  abundant  bread.  The  region  produces,  on 
the  slopes  of  age-old  eruptions,  the  best  wine  in  Sic- 
ily; broom  plants,  almost  like  young  pine  or  larch, 
border  the  way  and  there  was  the  mocking  green  of 


ETNA  IN  ANGER  299 

young  vegetation  just  on  the  edge  of  all  that  horror 
above,  of  which,  here,  there  was  as  yet  little  hint. 

We  reached  Nicolosi  at  six  o'clock,  left  the  car- 
riage and  set  out,  on  foot  or  by  muleback,  two 
hours  to  the  lava — so  near  to  it  that  my  face  was 
scorched.  In  the  black  night  the  river  of  fire  was 
hideous  and  fascinating.  At  the  point  I  reached, 
the  lava  was  two  kilometers  wide  and  nearly  forty 
feet  deep,  spluttering  stones  that  came  tumbling 
with  a  grumbling,  thundering  sound  down  the  men- 
acing front  of  the  red  lava  stream  that  pushed  them 
on.  Sometimes  they  split,  showing  the  dull  glow 
of  the  heat  within;  and  the  vast  mass  moved  im- 
placably onward,  so  that  you  must  gradually  draw 
back  before  its  advance. 

Another  crater  had  opened  that  day  and  the  lava 
was  moving  faster.  As  this  blasting  flood  reached 
a  tree  or  shrub  it  flamed  like  matches;  poor  little 
peach  trees,  just  in  trembling  spring  flower,  or  glo- 
rious great  chestnuts  with  spreading  branches  alike 
must  yield,  shrivel  and  fall.  When  the  mass  touched 
a  house  the  walls,  as  Papalia  says,  bent  in  a  curious, 
wavering  fashion,  then  came  tumbling  down.  Some- 
times they  sturdily  stood  against  the  pressure.  It 
was  the  same  in  the  end.   The  lava  covered  all. 

The  processions  of  peasants,  on  foot  and  on 
mules,  going  to  the  lava  and  returning  from  it, 
with  despair  in  their  faces,  the  children  crying,  the 
women  praying — it  was  a  terrible  sight!  I  cried 
myself  as  bitterly  as  any  of  them.    I  talked  with 


300  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

one  man  who  had  lost  30,000  vines;  with  others 
whose  poor  bits  of  land  were  covered  and  would 
yield  nothing  for  three  hundred  years.  Priests  were 
going  with  candles  to  bless  the  lava  and  beg  it  to 
turn  aside  from  threatened  villages. 

I  stood  more  than  two  hours  unable  to  turn  away. 
Two  parties  came  up,  each  v/ith  an  image  of  the 
Madonna.  They  arranged  little  altars  and  threw 
themselves  flat  on  the  ground  at  the  feet  of  the 
Virgin. 

If  you  can  imagine  a  cataract  of  fire  dropping 
hundreds  of  feet,  and  rolling  down  with  it  huge 
blocks  of  half-molten  stone,  you  may  know  what 
I  saw.  The  night  was  so  cold  that  we  sat  on  half- 
hot  lava  to  keep  from  freezing.  The  sulphur  gases 
blew  in  our  faces  and  when  the  wind  cleared  away 
the  vapor  a  little  we  were  covered  with  snow. 
Finally  we  went  into  the  mountain  climber's  refuge, 
a  little  hut  occupied  by  twenty  persons.  One  of  our 
party  fainted  and  the  rest  were  not  much  better  off. 
At  six  in  the  morning  we  began  the  descent  and 
did  not  reach  Nicolosi  until  nearly  noon.  Thirty 
hours  of  the  inferno! 

Still  the  mountain  spouted  lava!  Still  it  covered 
little  farms,  depopulated  villages;  gulped  down 
trees  in  blossom.  So  once  again  we  made  our  usual 
trip  to  Nicolosi.  Once  more  we  called  for  mules. 
We  got  one  with  an  excellent  side-saddle,  and 
another  with  something  that  had  been  a  side-saddle 
but  was  broken  out  of  all  resemblance  to  its  family. 


ETNA  IN  ANGER  301 

I  said  I  could  ride  it  astride,  so  I  arranged  a  blanket 
over  the  mule's  back  and  begged  rope  to  make 
stirrups.  They  brought  me  bits  of  cord  so  slight 
that  I  did  not  dare  put  my  weight  on  them,  and 
we  started  on  the  most  toilsome  trip  I  ever  made. 
The  usual  path  over  the  flow  of  1886,  where  it 
swept  down  through  these  valleys  between  many 
extinct  cones,  was  so  completely  blocked  by  new 
lava  that  we  had  to  pick  our  way  diagonally  through 
a  lava  stream  where  I  do  not  suppose  twenty  peo- 
ple had  ever  been  before  us.  The  lava,  mostly  of 
1886,  entirely  surrounding  a  hill  green  with  young 
blades  of  grain  at  our  left,  was  grotesque.  In 
places  it  was  as  if  the  waves  of  a  storm  at  sea  had 
suddenly  been  petrified — as  if  stone  surf  were 
plunging  toward  you;  sea  waves  arrested  just  as 
they  were  breaking,  white  and  savage.  In  others 
there  were  wierd  shapes  of  men  and  animals;  some- 
times the  flow  was  covered  with  white  lichen. 

The  mules  picked  their  way  so  slowly  that  we 
were  nearly  three  hours  crossing  the  flow  diag- 
onally. At  last  we  came  upon  beautiful  fertile 
slopes,  green  with  wheat  and  planted  with  chestnut 
trees.  We  were  high  enough  to  get  a  broad  view 
of  the  upper  slopes  of  Etna,  streaked  and  scarred 
with  black  lava  streams,  some  new,  some  old,  run- 
ning down  through  the  valleys  according  to  the  tilt 
of  the  land,  now  dividing  to  leave  a  green  hill  un- 
touched, now  uniting  again,  spreading  like  the 
fingers  of  a  grasping  hand. 


302  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

On  our  left  was  a  moving  stream  of  the  new  lava 
thirty  feet  high,  winding  down  like  a  serpent,  bury- 
ing vineyards  and  engulfing  or  pushing  over  great 
nut  trees  that  seemed  to  suffer  death  agonies  at  the 
shriveling  touch. 

We  climbed  up  beside  it  for  another  hour,  watch- 
ing the  peasants  cutting  trees  and  loading  mules 
with  the  trunks  to  save  at  least  the  wood.  These 
processions  of  mules  coming  down  with  their  mel- 
ancholy loads  were  saddening  to  see.  In  some  places 
charcoal  burners  had  put  up  huts  to  utilize  the  wood. 

As  we  got  still  higher  we  passed  the  timber  line 
and  reached  a  country  covered  with  patches  of 
coarse,  prickly  grass,  where  sometimes  the  snow  lay, 
blackened  with  cinder  and  ashes.  We  were  close 
to  three  new  cones,  and  all  about  were  those  of 
previous  convulsions.  The  muleteer  told  us  the 
name  and  age  of  each  little  mountain,  but  I  could 
not  listen.  I  was  tracing  the  black  streams  of  death 
of  all  ages  and  all  widths  that  have  run  like  rivers 
down  the  dreadful  mountain,  leaving  here  and  there 
below  us  a  green  spot  of  a  few  acres  where  one 
could  see  a  house  and  picture  the  effort  at  tillage, 
the  isolation — and  again  spreading  over  miles  of 
country. 

It  was  intensely  cold,  with  a  bitter  wind,  and  when 
we  reached  the  shelter  hut  after  five  hours  of  rid- 
ing, I  could  scarcely  stand.  We  were  told  it  would 
be  useless  to  try  to  go  to  the  top,  since  the  central 
cone  was  sending  out  no  lava,  and  so  we  started  on 


ETNA  IN  ANGER  303 

foot  to  visit  the  highest  craters  we  could  reach. 
The  trip  was  not  unlike  the  previous  one,  except 
that  we  went  much  higher  and  were  able  to  approach 
two  craters  closely  because  they  were  not  throwing 
out  pumice  or  stones.  The  ground  was  everywhere 
covered  with  blocks  of  pumice,  yellow  with  sulphur, 
which  the  craters  had  vomited.  But  as  we  neared 
the  highest  vents  the  lava  flowed  rapidly  and 
silently.  When  the  sulphur  fumes  allowed,  we 
could  go  within  a  few  feet  of  one  crater  and  watch 
the  violet  and  orange  lights,  the  play  of  colors  in 
the  cavern.  Our  faces,  and  my  dress,  were  burned 
and  we  were  nearly  choked.  It  was  an  awesome 
thing  to  see  this  river  of  fire  pouring  down  hill,  red, 
like  molten  metal. 

As  the  darkness  came  on  we  could  trace  its  course, 
winding  among  the  hills  for  a  distance  that  our 
muleteer  said  was  several  miles.  We  were  close  to 
two  craters;  one,  higher  than  the  other,  was  pour- 
ing lava  over  its  lip;  the  lower  one  had  built  itself 
something  like  a  well-head,  and  the  lava  had 
tunneled  below  and  was  coming  out  from  a  long 
cavern.  The  two  streams  gradually  approached,  ran 
side  by  side,  leaving  a  great  ridge  of  cold  lava  be- 
tween, and  finally  became  one  river,  pouring  to- 
gether through  a  high  gate  they  had  built,  and  down 
to  desolate  the  country.  The  nearer  brook  was 
about  thirty  feet  wide,  the  other  much  the  same. 
The  only  sound  was  like  the  soft  lapping  of  a  stony 
surf,  as  the  lava  poured  itself  along. 


304  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

Back  at  the  hut  we  were  shaken  by  two  little 
earthquakes.  The  ground  quaked  everywhere;  it 
was  like  walking  on  jelly;  but  there  were  no  severe 
shocks.  I  wanted  to  stay  overnight  to  get  more 
photographs,  but  the  weather  was  too  threatening 
to  urge  anyone  to  sit  in  a  chair  all  night  in  a  tiny 
room  packed  with  twenty  men,  so  we  mounted  our 
mules  to  return.  If  you  can  imagine  the  sensation 
of  sharp  descents  over  jagged  rock  in  pitchy  dark- 
ness without  stirrups,  you  will  believe  that  I  did 
not  greatly  enjoy  this  return.    We  reached  Nicolosi 

about  midnight,  and  N said  she  had  been  afraid 

of  the  ghostly  rocks.  I  had  been  afraid  of  nothing 
except  going  over  the  mule's  head,  but  very  much 
afraid  of  that.  I  tried  at  one  time  to  have  the  man 
lead  the  mule,  but  he  had  to  let  the  animal's  head 
down  so  much  that  the  poor  beast  kept  stumbling 
worse  than  before.  The  muleteer  had  one  small 
lantern,  but  the  oil  gave  out  just  as  we  reached  the 
old  lava  flow.    When  they  lifted  me  off  the  mule  I 

was  so  near  fainting  that  N got  me  wine,  while 

the  good  woman  in  the  hotel  made  hot  coffee. 
There  was  no  room ;  the  place  was  crowded  with 
newspaper  men  and  tourists.  We  swallowed  an  in- 
credible number  of  eggs  and  started  by  carriage  for 
Catania.  At  five  o'clock  in  the  morning,  not  having 
gone  to  bed,  we  took  train  for  Taormina,  reaching 
there  at  7:30. 

Late  in  April — for  this  was  a  drama  of  months; 
a  mockery  of  spring;  a  daily  visible  tragedy  seen 


Driven  by  the  Lava  Fruit  Trees  for  Fuel 

Ruined  by  Etna 


ETNA  IN  ANGER  305 

afar  from  the  fairest  scenes  of  earth,  by  people  who 
had  little  heart  to  enjoy  the  beauty  about  them — 

late  in  April  N and  I  went  again  to  the  lava. 

Our  fourth  visit  to  Hell  followed  the  now  familiar 
route  to  Nicolosi,  which  we  reached  about  noon,  eat- 
ing luncheon  in  the  carriage  driving  up  from 
Catania,  so  that  we  were  ready  to  start  at  once  for 
the  new  craters ;  but  the  lava  had  spread  so  terribly 
that  all  the  nearer  ways  were  blocked,  and  we  were 
told  that  to  reach  the  nearest  crater — there  were 
seven  in  eruption — would  take  five  hours  on  mule- 
back  and  four  for  the  return.  We  could  get  no 
beds  at  Nicolosi,  so  we  contented  ourselves  with 
going  to  the  main  lava  stream  and  climbing  beside 
it  as  far  as  time  allowed.  We  had  an  appalling 
view  of  the  fire  from  three  of  the  craters,  getting 
near  them  as  the  crow  flies,  though  to  reach  them 
we  must  have  made  a  detour  of  more  than  ten  miles. 
Then  we  came  down  to  the  head  of  the  lava,  the 
advancing  wave  of  the  main  stream.  It  was  moving 
about  fifty  feet  per  hour  and  in  places  was  more 
than  one  hundred  feet  high,  in  others  perhaps  fifty. 
The  advance  of  the  horrible  thing  brings  the  tears 
into  your  eyes.  Upon  the  previous  visit,  in  the 
evening,  the  rivers  of  fire  were  like  dreams  of  the 
inferno.  But  by  daylight  I  was  even  more  impressed. 
The  sky  cloudless;  everywhere  the  beautiful,  smil- 
ing spring ;  peach  trees  in  delicate  pink  blossoms,  the 
vines  putting  out  their  first  juicy  little  leaves,  the 
almond  trees  all  a  tender  green.    The  Sicilian  spring 


3o6  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

is  an  enchantment.  I  never  tire  of  the  rich  green 
of  the  wheat,  the  blue  of  the  flax,  the  red  of  the 
poppy  fields — and  down  into  this  smiling  country 
was  moving  black  desolation ! 

N and  I  sat  on  a  low  wall  in  front  of  a  beau- 
tiful chestnut  tree.  To  our  right  were  young 
olives,  a  few  apple  trees  with  their  blossoms  just 
opening,  one  or  two  pear  and  cherry  trees  and  a 
clump  of  fig  trees.  All  around  us  was  the  richest 
imaginable  soil,  fine  as  powder,  black  and  immensely 
fertile,  planted  with  American  vines,  like  most  of 
the  vineyards  in  Sicily.  The  best  table  wine  of  the 
island  came  from  these  slopes ;  much  like  the  Vesu- 
vian  brands  about  Naples. 

The  crowd  of  onlookers  was  as  interesting  as  the 
lava — perhaps  six  or  eight  tourists,  the  rest  peasants 
from  the  villages  threatened  with  destruction.  One 
of  the  visitors  was  the  pretty  royal  Princess  of 
Nomatterwhat,  who  laughed  heartily  at  the  spec- 
tacle of  the  peasants  hastily  cutting  trees  to  save  the 
firewood  and  carrying  away  even  the  smallest 
branches  of  the  olives.  They  were  doing  this  with 
frantic  haste,  because  until  the  last  minute  they 
could  not  bear  to  touch  the  precious  nut  trees  which, 
almost  as  much  as  the  vines,  mean  their  livelihood. 

When  this  blonde  Princess  laughed,  a  poor  old 
woman  spoke  to  me,  as  I  was  trying  to  take  a  photo- 
graph, and  asked,  "Why  do  you  outlanders  come 
here  to  mock  our  misery  and  take  our  pictures?" 

I  told  her  that  I  would  throw  my  camera  into 


ETNA  IN  ANGER  307 

the  fire  if  that  would  do  any  good,  and  that  I  cer- 
tainly was  not  laughing.  Then  I  said  that  perhaps 
my  pictures  might  some  time  show  other  people  how 
Sicily  was  suffering,  and  asked  if  she  would  not  like 
to  see  some  of  them.  I  had  received  in  the  morn- 
ing, just  as  I  was  starting,  half  a  dozen  that  I  had 
taken  with  a  borrowed  camera  on  my  other  visit — 
taken  with  a  slight  time  exposure  before  it  got  really 
dark.  She  looked  at  the  first  of  these,  recognized 
her  son  in  the  foreground  and  was  delighted.  I 
gave  her  the  copy,  and  she  began  to  talk  faster  than 
I  could  follow  the  Sicilian. 

It  was  a  pitiful  story  of  years  of  sweat  and  toil 
to  buy  the  ground  over  which  the  lava  was  advanc- 
ing ;  a  little  bit  of  ground,  I  fancy,  for  in  this  region 
there  are  both  very  large  and  very  small  properties. 
But  she  and  her  husband  had  given  their  lives  to 
but  their  tiny  plot,  and  plant  it  with  American  vines 
and  bring  these  into  bearing.  They  were  splendid 
vines,  with  big  stalks ;  she  had  tears  in  her  eyes  as 
she  bent  to  show  me  the  knobs  or  shoulders  of  the 
old  vines  in  full  vigor.  Little  shoots  of  green  were 
starting  from  the  big  knobs,  and  the  woman 
touched  them  as  if  they  had  been  her  children.  She 
said  all  this  work  had  been  for  the  son  whose  pic- 
ture I  had  taken.  He  had  been  in  school  in  Bel- 
passo  and  was  to  have  gone  to  a  higher  school,  but 
now  all  was  over.  The  vines  were  being  buried; 
her  son — she  did  not  care  for  herself;  she  was  old 
and  must  soon  die ;  but  her  boy 


3o8  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

"All  yesterday,"  she  said,  "I  lay  flat  at  the  feet  of 
the  Madonna  and  begged  her  to  spare  the  fruit  of 
blood  and  sweat;  but  the  fire  has  covered  half  the 
vines  already,  and  before  night  it  will  cover  the 
rest.    And  there  is  nothing  we  can  do." 

It  would  have  been  mockery  to  say  anything  en- 
couraging; I  answered  only:  "It  is  true;  there  is 
no  hope  but  in  the  good  God."  I  do  not  know  why 
I  said  such  a  thing  in  the  face  of  cruel  nature,  ex- 
cept that  the  faith  of  these  people  is  so  simple  that 
one  must  bow  to  it. 

The  effect  it  produced  was  astounding,  even  to 
one  who  knows  Sicily. 

"Do  you  pray  to  the  good  God  ?"  said  the  woman. 
"Then  you  must  be  much  better  than  we.  We  pray 
to  our  Saints  and  to  the  Beautiful  Mothers  because 
they  are  nearer  and  may  perhaps  hear  us.  We  are 
not  good  enough  to  pray  to  the  far-off  God." 

N came   up   with    two    Englishmen    from 

Taormina  and  the  woman  saluted  them  respectfully 
with  "Bless  you,  Sirs!"  but  when  it  came  my  turn 
she  hesitated  a  minute  and  then  threw  her  arms 
around  my  neck  and  kissed  me,  begging  me  to  pray 
for  her  to  the  good  God.  I  had  no  great  faith  in 
prayer,  with  the  fire  rolling  down  at  our  very  feet, 
so  I  went  to  the  carabinieri  who  were  policing  the 
place,  and  inquired  about  the  woman.  She  had  told 
me  a  true  story,  and  I  went  back  and  gave  her  a 
few  lire.  She  said  that  if  they  could  after  a  year 
or  so  save  a  little  money  by  working  in  other  vine- 


ETNA  IN  ANGER  309 

yards  the  son  would — come  to  America  I  That  is 
the  dream  of  half  Sicily. 

I  wish  it  were  possible  to  picture  the  sight.  The 
blue  shadows  on  the  hills,  the  laughing  flowers,  the 
throng  of  sad  people  watching,  nearly  all  holding 
rough  alpenstocks  which  until  yesterday  were  sup- 
ports for  the  doomed  vines — pulled  up  out  of  the 
earth  because  no  longer  needed.  The  stream  of  lava 
moving  toward  us,  one  formed  of  many  streams, 
was  here  probably  three  hundred  meters  wide. 
Under  the  sun  it  was  blackish,  except  when  a  great 
piece  fell  away  from  the  high  front  and  rolled 
down  at  our  feet,  red  and  emitting  sparks.  There 
was  a  continuous  fall  of  small  stones  and  powdery 
material,  with  the  occasional  descent  of  a  great 
mass,  so  that  we  saw  our  beautiful  chestnut  tree 
buried  almost  to  its  top  and  the  olives  and  fig  trees 
one  after  another  uprooted  and  covered.  This 
wider  river  moved  with  greater  noise  and  tumult 
than  the  smaller  rivulets  of  lava  we  had  seen  farther 
up  the  mountain;  many  such  must  have  united  to 
make  its  thousand  feet  of  menacing  width. 

It  is  a  piteous  sight  to  see  a  little  peach  tree  all  in 
flower  shriveling  before  the  fire.  Back  and  back 
we  moved,  for  the  lava  scorched  our  faces.  The 
hundreds  of  people  in  mountain  capes  and  hoods,  the 
women  with  yellow  and  white  kerchiefs  on  their 
heads,  were  very  quiet.  They  had  come  to  expect 
the  worst.  For  the  most  part,  they  said  nothing. 
Only  now  and  then  when  seemingly  half  a  moun- 


3IO  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

tain  fell  with  thunderous  noise,  someone  would 
cry  out,  "Oh,  Madonna  Mia,  we  are  ruined!" 

As  night  came  on,  it  was  as  if  we  saw  cataracts 
of  flame.  The  activity  of  the  lava  increased,  or 
seemed  to  do  so,  and  one  saw  nothing  but  running 
fire,  fluid  streams  of  fire,  pouring  from  the  lava 
mountain  wall  that  slowly  pushed  its  way  down- 
ward. Now  and  then  great  caverns  of  fire  opened 
and  tons  and  tons  of  molten  lava  came  down  with 
a  crash,  breaking  tree  trunks  and  knocking  down 
walls.  People  were  moving  about  with  flaming 
torches  and  lanterns.  It  needed  only  a  group  of 
tourists  to  dance  upon  partly  cooled  lava,  as  some 
are  said  to  have  done  with  strange  bravura,  to  fin- 
ish a  study  of  the  inferno  in  action. 

And  so  once  more,  and  for  the  last  time,  we  came 
away,  reeling  with  fatigue,  sick  with  horror,  ready 
with  sympathy,  able  to  do  nothing  in  the  face  of  the 
appalling  disaster. 

The  beauty  of  this  cruel  region  is  incredible. 
Throughout  the  earlier  days  of  the  eruption  Taor- 
mina  was  in  a  fog  of  smoke  and  mist,  the  wind 
much  of  the  time  a  terrible  scirocco.  The  terrace 
was  always  strewn  with  ashes,  and  Etna  lowered 
through  slate-colored  clouds,  a  threatening  monster, 
a  perpetual  menace.  Now  and  then  tremendous 
clouds  of  smoke  were  visible  from  the  terrace, 
whirlwinds  of  smoke,  and  at  night  gorgeous  spec- 
tacles of  fire. 

Then  the  sky  cleared.    After  a  belated  snowfall 


How  THE  Lava  Advances 


^    "^^^^^^X 

^Ly^r 

B  /m||  ;«t4P!H^K>isM 

^H^^^^^jb 

wf^l^Jtt 

^^^1 

Ik 

^^^^^^V"*  '^^^pi 

A  Useless  Vigil 


ETNA  IN  ANGER  311 

there  were  glorious  sunrises.  Etna  with  new  snow 
whitening  its  sides  was  beautiful  as  a  vision,  with 
rosy  lights  tinting  the  fainter  smoke  wreaths  and 
touching  the  white  slopes  into  a  dream  of  fairyland. 
The  snow  lay  as  low  as  in  January,  covering  the 
cold  black  lava  of  many  yesteryears. 

Then  rain  washed  the  ashes  from  the  vines  and 
everything  jumped  forward  into  summer  life.  The 
vine  leaves  were  of  a  most  wonderful,  delicate, 
beautiful  green.  Wistaria  was  in  luxuriant  flower. 
Spring  roses  everywhere  blossomed.  The  hills  were 
orange-colored  with  marigolds.  Below  me  the 
lemon  garden,  and  then  the  village  with  tiled  roofs 
yellow  with  lichen;  then  the  young  green  of  the 
almond  trees,  punctuated  by  dark,  straight  firs ;  then 
the  rocks  of  Theater  Hill,  yellow  here  and  there 
with  spurge ;  at  the  top  the  dull  red  of  the  Theater, 
and  beyond,  the  blue  sea — all  this  I  saw 

And  so  around  once  more  in  the  mighty  sweep  of 
the  vision  to  the  Mountain — and  I  knew  the  mean- 
ing of  every  tiniest  wisp  of  rising  smoke,  its  cost 
in  tears  and  anguish ! 


CHAPTER  II 
Messina  Six  Months  After 

While  I  was  waiting  at  the  wooden  shed  that 
served  Messina  for  a  Post  Office,  I  saw  a  little  dust- 
covered  Sicilian  coming  up,  pulling  the  bridle  of  a 
donkey  loaded  with  fresh  figs  and  lettuce.  Two 
trim  Americans  of  the  teacher  type  followed,  each 
armed  with  Baedeker  and  camera. 

"Vossia ,"  began  the  SiciUan.    But  one  of  the 

Americans  interrupted: 

"We  want  some  figs,  but  what  stuff  is  she 
talking?" 

The  bent  little  woman  was  patiently  repeating  the 
prices. 

"Three  for  a  soldo,"  I  translated. 

"That's  three  for  a  cent,  isn't  it?  Could  I  get 
them  any  cheaper?" 

A  minute  later  the  purchase  had  been  made  and 
the  woman  was  moving  away  with  a  parting 
blessing. 

The  American  looked  at  me  with  round  eyes. 
"That's  Sicilian  for  'May  God  reward  Your  Lady- 
ship,' "  I  explained. 

"My  Ladyship!  That's  good!"  said  the  other. 
"Do  they  all  talk  like  that  ?  But  come  on,  Josie,  we 

312 


MESSINA  SIX  MONTHS  AFTER        313 

never  shall  have  time  to  see  the  ruins  and  catch  the 
train." 

To  this  had  come  Messina !  Six  months  after  the 
earthquake  of  December  28,  1908,  the  Smiling  City 
had  become  the  hunting  ground  of  tourists  in 
search  of  a  new  sensation  in  a  new  Pompeii.  The 
search  never  failed,  for  half  a  year  had  changed 
Messina  chiefly  in  adding  the  grotesque  and  the 
pitiful  to  the  appalling. 

Under  the  great  sepulcher  lay  perhaps  30,000 
dead.  Camped  close  among  the  mountainous  graves 
were  not  far  from  40,000  living.  The  peaceful 
summer  sky  of  Sicily,  the  moveless  waters  of  the 
Strait,  the  outlines  of  the  Calabrian  mountains, 
were  a  dream  of  blue.  Waking,  you  breathed  the 
poisonous  dust  of  death  hot  with  the  scent  of 
orange  blossoms. 

The  disaster  left,  aside  from  immediate  relief, 
two  problems:  the  temporary  and  the  permanent  re- 
building of  Messina,  Reggio,  Palmi,  Bagnara,  Tre- 
Mestieri,  Ali  and  dozens  of  other  towns  along  the 
Sicilian  and  Calabrian  coasts.  The  barracks,  the 
building  of  wooden  sheds  provided  imperfectly  for 
the  first  difficulty.  At  all  plans  for  permanent  re- 
construction the  ghastly  piles  of  ruins,  here  chaotic, 
there  imposing,  grinned  much  as  they  grinned  in 
December. 

Of  the  one  thousand  three  hundred  houses  al- 
lotted to  Messina,  three  hundred  not  yet  built  are 
to  stand  to  the  north  of  the  old  citv  toward  the 


314  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

Faro,  the  famous  lighthouse  many  times  destroyed. 
The  other  one  thousand  lie  a  little  to  the  south,  not 
far  from  the  railway  station.  This  village,  ap- 
proaching completion,  is  to  Messina  the  "American 
street";  to  its  American  superintendents  "The 
White  City." 

To  reach  this  bright  spot  that  relieves  the  hor- 
rors of  the  great  sepulcher  you  pick  your  way  from 
the  port,  crowded  with  lumber-laden  ships,  to  the 
little  wooden  Post  Office  at  the  corner  of  the  Via 
Primo  Settembre  and  the  Viale  San  Martino.  Here 
you  are  at  a  rag-fair  among  the  graves.  All  about 
rise  disemboweled  houses,  their  crumbling  walls, 
gay  with  scarlet  poppies,  threatening  to  fall  on 
wreckage  or  on  the  gypsy  huts  hastily  put  up  in  the 
first  days  of  agony  by  the  Italian  and  Russian 
sailors. 

The  street  is  as  busy  as  before  the  earthquake. 
You  are  jostled  by  peddlers  whose  push-carts  are 
full  of  small  wares  saved  from  the  ruins,  and  by 
donkey-carts  piled  high  with  blood-stained  mat- 
tresses, bound  not  to  the  fire  that  should  consume 
them  but  to  be  sold,  with  or  without  disinfection, 
throughout  Sicily.  Bumping  these  are  the  carts  of 
fruit  and  vegetable  sellers  and  the  venders  of 
lemonade  and  ices.  Here  is  a  great  ox-cart  laden 
with  lumber  and  there  the  carriage  of  a  chance 
tourist  from  Naples,  gaping  at  the  strange  sights. 
Everybody  except  the  tourist  wears  a  soiled,  grimy 
black,  powdered  by  daily  dust  storms.    Everybody 


MESSINA  SIX  MONTHS  AFTER        315 

from  the  bootblack  to  the  tourist  wears  huge  pro- 
tective eye-glasses. 

In  the  old  days  the  Viale  San  Martino  was  a  broad 
boulevard  shadowed  by  locust  trees.  Now  it  is  a 
narrow,  treeless  lane  flanked  by  double,  sometimes 
triple  lines  of  wooden  structures,  ranging  from  huts 
of  six  boards  and  a  mass  of  old  clothes  to  trim  little 
restaurants  and  barber  shops.  Every  one  of  these 
shelters  is  a  barrack,  and  to  make  a  barrack  you 
need  nothing  more  than  a  bit  of  sailcloth  stretched 
between  two  shanties.  Here  on  the  ground  sleep  per- 
haps four  or  five  persons,  while  by  daylight  the 
space  is  given  over  to  a  tailoress  with  her  sewing 
machine.  Nothing  at  once  more  grotesque  and  more 
pitiful  than  the  Viale  San  Martino  has  been  seen 
since  civilization  dawned.  The  barracks  are  roofed 
as  it  may  happen  with  tar  paper,  bamboo  or  old 
boards.  All  the  older  ones  and  some  of  the  newer 
are  without  fire-places.  Four  to  six  bricks  or  a 
couple  of  stones  in  front  of  each  door  support  the 
cooking  pot,  and  among  a  people  for  ages  used  to 
stone  or  cement  houses  it  is  a  miracle  that  fires  are 
not  as  common  as  the  daily  earthquakes. 

Behind  the  barracks  are  the  mountains  of  ruins. 
Slowly,  in  the  Italian  fashion,  the  wreckage  is  be- 
ing removed  as  far  back  as  the  curb  and  a  few 
streets  are  being  opened.  On  one  side  of  the  Viale 
little  iron  tip-carts  are  run  on  temporary  tracks; 
on  the  other  side  donkeys  and  boys  are  doing  their 
poor  best  to  clear  the  city. 


3i6  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

Following  the  Viale  south,  one  comes  to  the  first 
new  brick  house  begun  since  the  earthquake.  I  re- 
member seeing  two  months  ago  a  stick  thrust  into 
the  ruins  with  the  sign  "Occupied  by  the  Owner." 
The  owner  has  now  run  his  back  wall  perhaps 
twenty  feet  high  against  a  mass  of  rubbish,  such  as 
no  one  who  has  not  seen  the  wreckage  of  Messina 
can  imagine,  a  mountain  of  broken  brick,  plaster, 
iron  beams  twisted  as  you  would  twist  a  straw, 
bamboo,  mattresses,  iron  beds  and  broken  furniture. 
At  each  side  the  tottering  walls  of  tall  houses  prom- 
ise to  come  down  before  many  days  to  wipe  out 
this  little  stroke  of  energy. 

A  few  steps  more  against  the  poisonous  dust 
that  always  sweeps  the  Viale  and  you  reach  a  house 
that  stood  the  earthquake  without  injury.  It  is  a 
beautiful  mansion  of  one  story  in  reinforced  con- 
crete, standing  in  a  rose  garden.  Its  elderly  owner 
spends  hours  daily  on  a  terrace  overlooking  the 
city,  and  I  sometimes  wonder  if  he  is  glad  of  the 
lesson  in  construction  he  has  taught  his  fellow  cit- 
izens, or  if,  like  so  many  others,  he  has  lost  friends 
enough  to  say,  "We  who  are  so  unfortunate  as  to 
survive." 

The  clamor  is  like  that  of  another  Naples. 
Around  a  little  spigot  bored  into  an  old  aqueduct 
fifty  people  are  literally  fighting  for  water.  The 
braying  of  the  donkeys  and  the  screeching  of  women 
offering  lettuce  and  huge  purple  figs,  fresh  from 
the  country,  that  already — or  is  it  fancy? — exude 


MESSINA  SIX  MONTHS  AFTER        317 

the  acrid  stench  of  Messina,  deafen  the  ears.  Mes- 
sina is  rising  again — but  through  sufferings! 

Constantly  rising,  one  comes  to  the  plain  of 
Mosella,  a  suburb  of  the  city  where  the  first  lands 
were  expropriated  for  building  on  a  large  scale. 
Sorry  barracks  are  most  of  them,  sheds  divided  into 
rooms  twelve  feet  by  twelve  feet  without  windows, 
often  without  doors.  Passing  these  rapidly,  at  the 
height  of  the  long  slope  is  a  bridge  crossing  a  tor- 
rent where  the  way  is  stopped  by  guards.  Beyond 
the  bridge  shines  a  white  village  under  the  Stars 
and  Stripes. 

An  American  passes  with  a  quiet  "Buon  giorno," 
and  then  is  almost  at  home.  Not  quite;  the  intense 
blue  of  the  sky  and  the  overpowering  scent  of 
lemon  and  orange  blossoms  do  not  chime  with  the 
little  Yankee  houses  all  in  white  trimmed  with 
green.     Yet — yes;  he  is  at  home! 

The  village  has  been  built  under  the  architectural 
direction  of  John  Elliott,  artist,  son-in-law  of  Julia 
Ward  Howe,  with  Lionel  Belknap,  represent- 
ing Lloyd  Griscom,  American  Ambassador  to  Rome, 
as  Superintendent  in  charge.  It  is  away  from  the 
ruins;  it  stands  on  healthy,  uninfested  ground; 
shaded  by  such  trees  as  could  be  spared,  orange, 
figs,  olives  and  acacias. 

The  village  is  laid  out  roughly  as  a  square  with 
broad  streets  running  East  and  West,  and  narrower 
side  streets  grouping  the  houses  into  blocks  of 
twelve.    Each  house  is  sixteen  by  twenty  feet  and 


3i8  BY-PATHS  IN   SICILY 

stands  apart  from  its  neighbors,  though  the  space 
is  not  so  wide  as  it  should  be.  Each  is  clapboarded 
and  roofed  with  zinc.  It  has  a  little  attic  with 
ventilating  louvre  boards  and  is  divided  below  into 
two  rooms  with  a  small  annex  for  kitchen.  Outside 
it  has  two  coats  of  white  paint  and  a  little  notice  in 
white  and  green  enamel,  "U.  S.  to  Italy,  1908." 
The  kitchen  would  hardly  be  recognized  by  an 
American  even  as  a  kitchenette.  Its  only  furniture 
is  a  brick  fireplace  built  solid  to  a  convenient  height. 
A  brick  wall  is  carried  up  at  the  back  and  side  but 
the  wise  Sicilian  smoke  finds  its  way  out  through 
a  chimneypot  in  the  ceiling.  The  front  room  is 
often  divided  further  by  hangings  into  bedroom  and 
living  room  while  the  back  room  serves  for  dining- 
room  and,  often,  a  second  chamber. 

When  completed,  this  village  will  be  given  to  the 
City  of  Messina.  At  present  several  hundred  houses 
are  occupied  by  families  in  special  need,  as  when 
an  invalid  must  be  removed  or  a  child  is  expected. 
In  addition  to  the  barracks  a  church  in  the  form  of 
a  Greek  cross  and  a  hotel  of  seventy-five  rooms, 
placed  East  of  the  village  toward  the  station,  are 
well  under  way. 

By  the  wish  of  the  United  States  Government,  all 
this  work  is  being  done  by  Sicilian  laborers ;  largely 
by  survivors  of  the  earthquake.  Six  hundred  men 
are  employed  now  and  they  show  no  signs  of  the 
apathy  of  which  Messina  has  been  accused  in  the 


Queen  Elena's  Village 


"Kitchenette,"  American  Village 


MESSINA  SIX  MONTHS  AFTER        319 

Italian  Parliament.  "Faithful  and  intelligent"  are 
the  words  of  Mr.  Elliott. 

As  for  the  future,  in  the  minds  of  commissions, 
sub-commissions  and  sub-sub-commissions,  every- 
thing is  done,  because  plans  for  everything  have 
been  endlessly  discussed.  There  is  a  key-plan  for 
the  laying  out  of  a  new  city  with  commercial  and 
residential  quarters,  the  essential  quarters  consisting 
of  streets  ranging  from  ten  meters  for  those  of  less 
importance  to  twenty  for  the  main  avenues;  the 
houses  to  range  from  seven  to  twelve  meters  in 
height,  each  standing  in  its  own  garden.  This  plan, 
aside  from  the  bureaucratic  difficulties  expected  in 
Italy,  encounters  two  obstacles :  It  cannot  be  carried 
out  without  the  removal  of  the  mountains  of  ruins 
that  encumber  the  city  and  without  the  foimding 
of  special  credit  for  builders*  loans. 

Messina  has  complained  with  reason  about  nearly 
everything  that  has  been  done  and  has  not  been 
done  for  her  during  the  past  six  months,  and  espe- 
cially of  the  lack  of  schools.  There  is  no  school 
yet  in  the  American  village,  but  it  might  surprise 
those  Americans  who  think  of  Sicily  as  a  country 
of  ignorance  to  see  schools  in  barracks  which  are 
little  more  than  dens,  barracks  that  seem  to  cancel 
twenty  centuries  of  civilization.  The  only  schools 
that  do  not  bring  tears  to  the  eyes  are  those  of  the 
village  built  by  the  Italian  sailors  and  soldiers  and 
called  by  the  name  of  Queen  Elena. 

Inferior  in  some  respects  to  those  of  the  Amer- 


320  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

ican  village,  these  houses  pay  far  more  attention  to 
picturesqueness  of  appearance.  They  stand  well 
North  of  old  Messina  among  olive  and  lemon 
groves  and  near  the  sea.  The  life  of  the  village 
centers  around  the  Piazza  Vittorio  Emanuele  III, 
a  public  square  adorned  with  a  little  wooden  church 
and  with  a  fair  supply  of  gymnastic  apparatus.  The 
barracks  are  of  one  and  two  rooms  each  and  are 
built  for  the  most  part  roof  touching  roof,  almost 
in  solid  blocks  but  always  with  the  prolongation  of 
the  roof  above  a  porch  in  a  manner  almost  Swiss, 
which  gives  a  sense  of  cheerful  homelikeness  not 
to  be  found  elsewhere  in  Messina.  As  in  the  Amer- 
ican village,  every  house  is  staring  white,  and  the 
village  has  a  workshop  with  sixty  sewing  machines 
and  a  public  kitchen. 

It  devotes  two  barracks  to  elementary  schools, 
one  for  boys  and  one  for  girls.  The  girls'  school  is 
furnished  with  rough  benches,  a  blackboard  and 
pictures  of  the  King  and  Queen.  On  the  blackboard 
was  written,  "A  dirty  and  ignorant  girl  is  scorned 
by  all."  Intent  on  spelling  out  the  syllables  stood 
a  child  of  the  dark,  almost  wild,  Moorish  beauty 
so  often  seen  in  Sicily,  in  this  case  domesticated  by 
the  uniform  of  the  school,  a  long  blue  and  white 
pinafore.  Five  minutes  later  girls  and  boys  together 
were  scampering  up  and  down  the  street,  skipping 
rope,  turning  handsprings  and  watering  the  roses 
that  grew  in  their  gardens. 

This  is  the  bright  side  of  Messina.     Another 


MESSINA  SIX   MONTHS  AFTER        321 

school  I  visited  flourished  under  different  condi- 
tions. To  reach  it,  an  alpenstock  and  hob-nailed 
shoes  would  not  be  out  of  place,  for  you  take  one 
of  those  mountain  paths  among  the  wreckage  which 
are  still  the  ordinary  means  of  communication  in 
Messina,  climbing  now  to  the  second  story  of  a 
house  whose  front  wall  has  fallen,  leaving  almost 
intact  the  furnishings  of  the  upper  floors,  now  de- 
scending through  debris  of  every  sort  to  the  broken 
pavement.  I  came  to  a  little  square  bounded  on  two 
sides  by  ruins,  on  the  other  two  by  barracks,  life 
touching  death  everywhere  here.  Among  the  scat- 
tered stones,  the  wrecked  chairs,  the  torn  mattresses 
that  had  fallen  from  the  ruins  a  dozen  or  twenty 
girls  were  dancing  in  a  circle  and  singing  something 
as  pretty  and  nonsensical  as  our  old  nursery  rhyme: 

1*  Swing  around,  around  me ! 
A  loaf  and  a  round  loaf,  see ! 
A  handful  of  blue  pansies 
I  would  give  to  her  who  fancies — 
And  who  fancies  is  Sandrina. 
Down;  kneel  down,  the  littlest! 

As,  obedient  to  orders,  the  smallest  girl  dropped 
on  her  knees  the  Sister  of  Charity  in  charge  said 
to  me  in  her  sweet  Southern  Italian:  "The  little 
ones  do  not  know."  Her  glance  went  from  the  ruins 
about  us  to  a  table  inside  the  nearest  barrack  where 

^*  Gia,  gia  tondo !  Un  pan'  ed  un'  pan'  rondo !  U  mezzo 
di  viole  Lo  vi  dare  a  chi  lo  vuole;  E  lo  vuole  la  Sandrina. 
S'inginocchi  la  piu  piccina! 


322  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

stood  a  jar  of  flowers  that  carry  to  all  Italians  a 
meaning,  the  flowers  of  patience. 

But  it  is  not  patience  that  is  keeping  a  once  proud 
and  turbulent  city  so  quiet  during  its  months  of 
agony.  It  is  grief,  it  is  physical  and  mental  fatigue, 
the  result  of  unhygienic  living,  and  it  is  a  powerful 
wrath  that  becomes  despair.  A  few  weeks  ago  there 
was  started  a  weekly  journal  called  "L'Iniziativa," 
edited  by  Giacomo  Marocco,  a  survivor  of  the 
earthquake,  whose  object  is  to  call  the  attention  of 
Italy  to  the  red  tape  that  strangles  the  new  life  of 
Messina,  and  to  sing  the  song  of  the  moment: 
"Beautiful  is  Life,  and  holy  is  the  Future!" 
From  the  first  number  I  take  a  paragraph  which, 
exaggerated  or  not,  expresses  the  feeling  of  Mes- 
sina against  the  government  of  Giolitti: 

Under  the  ruins  lay  our  dear  ones,  wounded  and  calling 
for  help,  and  you  sent  us  12,000  soldiers,  not  with  hooks 
and  ladders  to  save  us,  but  with  rifles  to  hinder  us  from 
approaching  our  houses,  under  which  we  still  could  hear 
the  groans  of  our  families.  You  justified  your  work  by 
saying  that  it  was  necessary  to  guard  private  property.  Set- 
ting aside  the  fact  that  we  would  have  given  everything  we 
possessed  to  save  the  lives  of  our  relatives,  only  bureaucracy 
could  have  conceived  the  idea  that  among  the  wreckage  and 
in  the  dark  any  sort  of  watch  was  possible. 

I  remember  San  Francisco.  As  soon  as  the  fires  which 
completed  the  destruction  of  the  business  part  of  the  city 
were  extinguished,  the  people,  who  lived  for  the  most  part 
outside  the  business  section,  came  flocking  into  town,  laugh- 
ing, calling  to  each  other  "I've  nothing  to  wear.  I  don't 
know  where  to  get  my  next  meal.  But  we're  all  alive.  We're 
here;  we're  here!" 


MESSINA  SIX  MONTHS  AFTER        323 

Hardly  fair.  San  Francisco  kept  her  people. 
Messina  lost  her  best.  The  tall  palaces  of  her  men 
of  substance  and  of  energy,  the  heart  and  core  of 
a  commercial  city,  perished;  the  low  houses  of  the 
slums  escaped.  Catania  is  sheltering  six  thousand 
refugees,  the  largest  number  of  any  city  in  Italy, 
and  a  census  of  these  unfortunates  shows  that  only 
seventy-five  are  above  the  class  of  the  day  laborer. 

To  be  a  refugee  from  Messina  has  become  a  trade. 
It  suffices  to  put  on  black  and,  to  the  anger  of  all 
Sicily,  to  revive  the  custom  of  hand  kissing,  which 
since  the  days  of  the  Bourbons  Messina  has  fought, 
side  by  side  with  Palermo,  to  extirpate  as  a  relic 
of  feudalism.  The  custom  will  dwindle  again  as  the 
disaster  recedes  into  history,  but  at  present  it  is 
pathetic  to  be  unable  to  pass  through  a  village  with- 
out being  mobbed  by  a  crowd  all  struggling  to  kiss 
your  hand  or  arm,  and  all  crying:  "I  kiss  your  hand, 
Your  Excellency"  or  "I  kiss  your  hand,  dear  pretty 
young  lady."  Foolish  private  charity  has  done  this 
mischief,  has  done  so  much  mischief  that  intelligent 
Sicilians  are  beginning  to  measure  its  evils  against 
its  good.  The  multiplication  of  private  committees 
and  the  lack  of  statistics  of  families  have  made  it 
possible  for  a  diligent  refugee  to  receive  help  from 
half  a  dozen  committees  while  persons  not  accus- 
tomed to  asking  relief  have  had  nothing. 

This  offense  to  their  dignity  the  best  of  Messina 
is  feeling,  and  against  the  clamor  of  beggars  rises 
a  protest.  One  day  I  heard  an  old  sailor  tell  a  story 


324  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

with  much  bitterness.  Awhile  ago  a  couple  of  little 
beggars,  ragged  and  barefoot,  were  begging 
through  the  streets  of  Rome  and  playing  a  hand 
organ.  A  lady  threw  them  a  pair  of  shoes  so  worn 
that  they  hesitated  to  take  them,  but  a  woman  of 
the  people  called  to  the  lads :  "I'll  take  them ;  they'll 
serve  a  year  for  'Pro  Sicilia.'  " 

"What's  not  good  enough  for  beggars  will  do  for 
us  Sicilians,"  he  said  wrathfully.  "And  whose  fault 
is  it  if  not  our  own  that  for  every  little  misfortune 
— tidal  waves,  earthquakes  and  the  like — we  beg 
the  rags  of  all  nations?  We  who  have  survived  the 
earthquake  and  those  who  have  the  courage  to  re- 
turn— we  have  no  need  to  beg,  even  of  the  Govern- 
ment!   We  are  sufficient  to  ourselves." 

There  will  be  a  new  Messina,  not  because  the 
domination  of  the  Strait  is  necessary  to  Italy,  not 
because  in  1908  Messina  was  eighth  in  importance 
among  the  ports  of  Italy;  but  because  her  people 
love  the  city.  When  in  January  it  was  proposed  to 
bombard  the  ruins  the  people  rushed  to  the  port 
crying:  "Kill  us  too!    Let  us  die  with  Messina!" 

A  few  days  ago  as  I  stood  by  a  ruined  church, 
since  brought  to  the  ground  with  dynamite,  there 
came  to  me  a  man  and  a  tottering  old  woman, 
strangers  to  each  other,  who  told  me  the  story  of 
the  church,  of  its  great  convent  suppressed  years 
ago  by  the  Government,  of  its  wealth  and  of  its 
beauty.  Finally  the  woman  said :  "Ah,  what  beauty 


MESSINA  SIX  MONTHS  AFTER        325 

is  gone  forever!  If  the  lady  could  have  seen  that 
she  could  have  seen  our  city!" 

I  told  her  that  I  had  seen  Messina  before  the 
disaster  and  the  woman,  smiling  as  if  I  had  given 
her  a  fortune,  turned  away  saying:  "God  reward 
you !  She  knew  our  city !" 

Love  of  the  city  will  rebuild  it.  It  is  easy  to  see 
the  difficulties.  But  also  easy  to  see  that  the  noble 
impulse  of  brotherhood  that  gathered  the  survivors 
on  shipboard  and  trainboard  and  scattered  them 
from  Naples  to  Genoa  and  from  Taormina  to 
Palermo  went  too  far.  Well  for  the  wounded  that 
there  were  hospitals;  well  for  orphans  and  widows 
and  the  old  that  they  could  find  asylum.  But  for 
able-bodied  men  with  families  stranded  in  cities 
where  they  could  not  speak  the  language — Sicilian 
dialects  arc  foreign  to  Northern  Italy — the  natural 
rehef  was  the  soup  kitchen.  When  funds  were  ex- 
hausted and  the  kitchens  closed,  the  cry  "Send  the 
Messinians  back  to  Messina"  found  the  barracks 
full  to  overflowing,  and  work  on  the  ruins  taken 
largely  by  Northerners.  Houses  are  going  up  now 
with  speed,  though  they  cannot  keep  pace  with  the 
flood  of  population ;  people  are  sleeping  on  the  lower 
floors  of  ruined  houses  likely  to  fall  in  upon  them. 

Some  weeks  ago  I  met  a  poor  creature  in  black 
carrying  a  baby  and  leading  a  donkey  laden  with  a 
few  poor  articles  of  furniture.  She  had  lost  her 
entire  family  except  a  brother  in  New  York.  In 
the  first  hours  under  the  ruins  she  and  her  husband 


326  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

had  talked  together.  Later,  she  had  said  to  him: 
"Let  us  not  lose  strength  speaking.  When  I  press 
your  hand,  press  mine,  and  we  shall  know  both 
live."  After  a  time  her  husband  ceased  to  return 
her  pressure,  and  later  still  when  rescue  came 
husband  and  three  children  were  dead.  She  was 
taken  to  a  hospital  in  Palermo  and  when  she  had 
recovered  strength  went  to  her  brother  in  New 
York.  But  in  New  York  she  was  unhappy  because 
of  her  mother  and  sisters  still  under  the  ruins.  So 
the  brother  gave  her  what  little  he  could  spare  and 
she  returned — to  find  that  April  was  nearly  spent, 
and  that  after  the  beginning  of  May  digging  in  the 
ruins  would  for  sanitary  reasons  be  forbidden. 


CHAPTER  III 
In  the  Sulphur  Mines 

Castrogiovanni,  the  most  picturesque  town  in 
Sicily,  is  as  good  a  point  as  any  to  set  out  for  the 
place  to  which  descent  is  swift,  as  dimly  fore- 
shadowed for  us  by  the  sulphur  mines.   N and 

I  went  together,  local  belief  being  that  it  was  un- 
wise to  set  out  alone  into  that  wild  and  desolate 
country. 

The  transformation  in  the  appearance  of  man 
and  his  habitations  was  dramatic  enough;  at  the 
very  edge  of  the  town  we  passed  grottoes  dug  in 
the  rock  of  the  cliff-side  and  still  inhabited  by  cave- 
dwellers,  as  we  were  to  see  them  at  Caltanisetta  and 
elsewhere.  But  once  out  in  the  country,  the  way 
was  bare,  through  limitless  plains  of  wheat  and 
beans  for  miles. 

The  few  people  whom  we  met  were  kindly  and 
interested.  An  old  shepherd  was  watching  sheep  on 
a  slight  rise  to  the  left  of  our  road.  I  jumped  from 
the  carriage  to  photograph  him.  He  was  manifestly 
pleased  by  the  process  and  asked  if  I  could  not  wait 
while  he  went  to  his  hut  to  get  a  ricotta  for  me, 
anxious  above  all  things  to  prove  his  hospitality. 

327 


328  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

That  little  break  in  the  journey  past,  nothing  in- 
terrupted the  monotony. 

It  was  more  than  a  two  hours'  drive  to  Bonanno. 
The  desolation  of  the  sulphur  country  is  unspeak- 
able— a  blasted  region  of  yellow  earth,  with  little 
holes  pecked  into  the  ground,  about  which  the  smell 
of  sulphur  ever  hangs.  The  Bonanno  mine  is  small 
and  still  uses  the  old-time  kilns,  so  that  from  a  dis- 
tance one  sees  the  conical  furnaces  walled  up  on  the 
sides,  but  open  at  the  top  except  in  the  actual  proc- 
ess of  burning,  when  the  sulphur  with  which  they 
are  filled  is  covered  with  earth  and  refuse.  Fusing 
can  take  place  only  in  settled  weather;  at  that  alti- 
tude, only  in  summer.  Rain  has  free  entrance. 

As  I  expected,  permission  to  enter  was  refused. 
The  superintendent  was  most  kind  and  showed  us 
the  smelting  and  other  exterior  operations,  but 
seemed  inflexible  in  his  refusal  to  go  further.  He 
said  that  the  galleries  are  so  deep  in  water  that  they 
would  be  quite  impassable  for  me.  I  assured  him 
that  I  understood  the  conditions  and  took  my  own 
risk,  and  chatted  a  little  in  Sicilian,  that  being  the 
easiest  way  to  get  on  terms  with  sub-authority. 
Pointing  to  the  line  of  wretched  little  "carusi"  com- 
ing out,  each  with  an  abominable  back-load  of  stone, 
I  said  I  was  sure  I  could  go  once  where  those  boys 
went  twenty-four  times  a  day.  Finally  he  agreed, 
and  I  took  off  my  hat,  wrapped  my  head  in  a  scarf, 
took  off  my  coat  to  replace  it  with  a  workman's 
canvas  jacket,  pinned  my  skirt  high,  and  was  ready. 


Miners  at  Villaross\ 


IN  THE  SULPHUR  MINES  329 

The  superintendent  detailed  two  master  workmen 
to  accompany  me,  each  with  a  Httle  terra  cotta  lamp 
fastened  at  his  forehead.  The  law  prescribes  that 
safety  lamps  must  be  used  but  in  practice  they  are 
not,  except  immediately  after  an  explosion  of  am- 
monial  gas.  The  tunnel  down  which  we  started  was 
in  no  place  much  more  than  two  feet  wide  and  we 
had  often  to  flatten  ourselves  against  the  slimy  stone 
wall  to  permit  the  passage  of  boys  laden  with  sul- 
phur ore — wretched,  wrinkled,  yellow  little  bodies 
bent  double  under  their  yellow  load. 

The  law  forbids  inside  labor  before  the  age  of 
thirteen,  but  outside  the  boys  begin  at  eight  and 
ten,  and  who  is  to  know  if  they  go  into  the  mine? 
There  is  nothing  to  prevent  except  the  fear  of 
accidents  to  boys  too  young  to  be  licensed.  Each 
boy  must  make  twenty-four  trips  daily  with  sul- 
phur rock  on  his  shoulders.  The  pick-men  work 
twelve  hours.  Caution  money  of  thirteen  hundred 
lire  must  be  paid  to  the  parents  of  boys ;  in  theory 
this  is  simply  a  loan,  to  be  repaid  when  the  work  is 
given  up.  The  boys  are  bent  and  wrinkled  like  old 
men. 

Very  seldom  could  I  stand  erect,  the  roof  seem- 
ing not  much  more  than  three  or  four  feet  high. 
The  descent  was  almost  perpendicular,  down  broken 
stone  steps  deep  in  mud,  water  constantly  dripping 
from  the  top  and  sides.  The  two  men  constantly 
warned  me  not  to  slip,  strengthening  my  conviction 
that  I  should. 


330  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

After  a  little  we  began  to  pass  side  galleries 
where  because  of  the  intense  heat  men  were  work- 
ing naked;  they  dodged  out  of  sight  as  we  ap- 
proached, but  it  was  easy  to  guess  that  they  cannot 
stand  erect  at  their  task  but  must  work  in  a  crouch- 
ing position.  We  went  down  and  down,  the  heat 
every  minute  more  suffocating;  my  clothing  was 
plastered  with  mud.  Finally  we  came  to  the  mouth 
of  a  gallery  where  someone  was  screaming  with 
pain.  We  found  that  a  mass  of  rock  had  fallen 
and  apparently  broken  the  arm  of  a  miner.  It  is 
unlawful  to  use  dynamite  in  the  mine  because  the 
roofs  are  precariously  supported  by  slender  props, 
but  it  hastens  production  and  the  owners  wink  at 
the  process.  This  was  die  result  of  a  blast,  I  used 
my  scarf  to  make  a  tourniquet  and  bandage — there 
was  nothing  else  to  do.  They  did  not  dare  carry 
him  out  until  quitting  time  for  fear  of  raising  a 
riot.  So  there  we  left  him,  in  that  inferno,  to  wait 
another  half  hour;  I  felt  as  if  I  were  leaving  my 
own  brother,  but  there  was  nothing  I  could  do 
except  sacrifice  my  muddy  scarf.  I  had  left  money 
and  food  with  N 

So  I  climbed  back  up  the  broken,  slimy  steps, 
the  water  dripping  on  my  head,  through  darkness  to 
daylight,  emerging,  I  was  told,  white-faced  and 
nerve-shaken  as  well  as  muddy. 

One  of  the  more  primitive  mines  was  hardly  a 
fair  sample,  perhaps.  So,  three  days  later,  off  we 
started  for  one  of  the  six  or  seven  largest  mines  in 


IN  THE  SULPHUR   MINES  331 

Sicily,  the  Lucia,  three  hours  from  Girgenti.  I  had 
a  letter  of  introduction  from  a  man  who  had  been 
paymaster  of  a  neighboring  property  but  had  been 
thrown  out  of  work  by  the  flooding  of  his  mine. 
We  were  warned  at  Girgenti  that  the  road  to  Lucia 
was  unsafe  and  that  we  must  have  a  good  driver 
with  a  gun;  we  let  the  hotel  choose  him,  and  he 
proved  a  sensible  fellow.  After  such  precautions, 
less  experienced  island  travelers  might  have  been 
made  nervous  when,  an  hour  out  of  town,  a  group 
of  countrymen  taking  their  ten  o'clock  luncheon  by 
the  ditch  at  the  roadside  ran  toward  us  waving  their 
arms  and  calling  on  us  to  stop.  The  driver  pulled 
up  and  the  rough-looking  fellows  offered  him  and 
us  their  flask  of  wine  and  some  hot  beans.  I  put 
my  hand  into  the  bean  dish  and  held  out  my  glass 
for  the  wine,  winning  from  the  driver  compliments 
upon  my  Sicilian  manners.  For  it  is  custom,  and 
very  old  custom,  thus  to  offer  food  and  wine ;  to  re- 
fuse is  an  insult  that,  in  the  case  of  a  man,  is  some- 
times the  cause  of  feud  and  bloodshed  and  is  always 
grave  discourtesy.  But  with  these  chance  acquaint- 
ances of  the  roadside  we  parted  most  amicably,  ex- 
changing courteous  good  wishes. 

The  Lucia  mine  belongs  to  the  Principessa  Pi- 
gnatella  di  Napoli ;  the  director,  Signor  Savona,  en- 
tertained us  at  luncheon.  To  his  stock  of  food  we 
added  our  own,  and  duly  complimented  the  cook 
upon  his  adaptability  and  skill. 

Signor  Savona  was  unwilling  that  we  should  enter 


332  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

the  mine,  but  while  we  sat  at  table,  arrived  most 
fortunately  the  young  son  of   the  lessee   with   a 

friend.     They  both  fell  in  love  with  N ,  as 

everyone  does,  and  insisted  that  if  we  wished  to  see 
the  mine,  the  mine  we  must  see.  So  the  reluctant 
superintendent  had  us  shown  to  a  room  where  we 
put  on  waterproofs  and  later  were  conducted  to  the 
shaft  where  the  elevators  were  bringing  up  cars  of 
sulphur  ore — for  in  this  mine  there  is  considerable 
machinery,  and  a  force  of  one  thousand  men  where 
there  are  but  eighty  or  a  hundred  at  Bonanno. 

We  stopped  on  the  cage,  or  lift,  a  dirty  iron  plat- 
form hanging  from  four  steel  ropes,  which  met  so 
close  above  our  heads  that  it  was  necessary  to 
crouch  on  our  knees  to  avoid  them.  These  elevators 
are  commonly  used  only  to  hoist  the  sulphur;  the 
men  go  up  and  down  on  foot.  We  went  to  the  sec- 
ond level,  about  two  hundred  meters  below  ground, 
with  the  superintendent  and  three  workmen.  I  found 
a  gallery  seven  or  eight  feet  wide,  with  a  narrow 
track  for  dump-cars  and  room  to  walk  beside  them ; 
the  height  ample,  the  way  comparatively  dry.   Here 

N sensibly    stopped,    while   the    men    and    I 

walked  on  in  the  darkness  almost  endlessly — I  for- 
get how  many  miles  of  passages  there  are — the 
way  narrowing  little  by  little  as  branch  galleries 
leave  it  at  either  side;  and  finally,  after  following 
through  v/ater  a  tortuous  side  branch,  we  came  to 
the  end  of  the  track  and  were  in  a  part  of  the  mine 
much  like  that  at  Bonanno,  with  narrower  galleries 


IN  THE  SULPHUR   MINES  333 

and  steep,  broken  stairs,  where  men  were  slaving 
naked,  and  from  which  yellow  little  boys  carried  big 
weights  of  yellow-veined  rock  on  their  shoulders  to 
the  track.  Here  also  there  were  the  channels  of 
drilling  for  dynamite;  for  the  superintendent  said 
that,  law  or  no  law,  they  could  not  mine  sulphur 
without  it. 

I  felt  as  if  I  had  lived  a  lifetime  underground.  It 
was  impossible  to  imagine  the  light  and  the  air. 
Here  was  a  world  of  human  beings,  dwarfed  and 
stunted,  snatching  up  their  jackets  at  my  approach, 
or  hiding  behind  jutting  rocks;  yet  there  was  no 
sense  of  impropriety;  the  men  seemed  a  race  of 
gnomes.  The  heat  was  so  intense  that  the  natty 
superintendent  had  stripped  to  his  shirt.  We  came 
to  a  pause,  and  a  man  brought  water  to  bathe  our 
faces  and  wrists. 

"If  I  cannot  endure  this  two  hours,"  I  asked  the 
superintendent,  "how  do  men  and  boys  endure  it 
all  their  lives?" 

"Poor  devils,"  he  replied,  "I  don't  know.  The 
mine  is  big,  but  not  rich  in  sulphur,  so  the  earnings 
are  low.  They  work  in  shifts,  but  for  the  most  part 
from  5  A.  M.  to  3  or  4  p.  m.,  and  they  never  have  a 
soldo.  When  they  are  paid  on  Saturday  they  are 
so" — the  Italian  word  means  so  driven  by  fatigue 
and  desperation — "that  they  are  mad  drunk  over 
Sunday,  and  knife  for  a  word.  They  come  back 
Monday  moody  and  melancholy  and  work  all  week 


334  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

as  patiently  as  mules,  but  as  sullenly  as  bears  until 
another  Saturday." 

Not  without  reason  are  the  mine  bosses  averse 
to  visitors.  The  men  are  given  to  little  jests  like 
cutting  the  ropes  of  the  elevators.  A  year  ago  they 
killed  an  engineer.  He  had  done  nothing.  He  v^^as 
not  responsible  for  conditions  in  the  mine;  his 
duties  lay  outside,  in  the  power  house,  but  the 
miners  were  desperate  and  craved  excitement.  Later 
I  learned  that  a  considerable  guard  had  been  put  on 
in  our  honor.  v 

When  we  had  regained  breath  we  climbed  to  the 
level — two  levels  are  almost  exhausted  and  they  are 
now  digging  down  to  a  third — and  in  a  few  mo- 
ments rejoined  N and  the  young  men.     They 

gave  us  their  arms  as  punctiliously  as  if  at  a  ball, 
and  I  reflected  upon  the  caricature  of  life  afforded 
by  two  women  picking  their  way  with  the  polite 
help  of  cavaliers  through  the  water,  while  gaunt, 
wrinkled  men  were  sweating  out  their  lives  in  every 
side  gallery  and  peering  at  us  from  the  darkness 
with  their  little  lamps  flickering  at  their  foreheads. 
Some  of  the  men  dressed  hastily  and  ran  out  to 
offer  us  bits  of  sulphur  for  money,  and  I  affected 
not  to  understand  their  blasphemy  when  they  were 
ordered  back. 

By  and  by  we  came  again  to  our  elevators  and 
waited  until  a  man  had  been  sent  up  to  make  sure 
that  all  was  ready  for  our  ascent  and  to  stand  by 


IN  THE  SULPHUR  MINES  335 

the  gear.  When  we  emerged  I  was  for  a  time 
bHnded  by  the  sudden  daylight. 

The  men  were  coming  up  early  from  their  work, 
for  it  was  Saturday  and  pay-day,  and  I  thought 
I  would  see  what  they  really  were  like.  I  asked  a 
number  if  I  might  take  their  photographs  and  they 
were  as  pleased  as  children.  They  crowded  about 
me  so  eagerly  that  it  was  difficult  to  use  the  camera, 
but  I  could  not  have  found  people  more  kindly, 
more  anxious  to  see  my  camera  and  more  good- 
natured.  The  superintendent  and  the  young  men 
at  first  tried  to  take  me  away,  but  presently  saw  that 
all  would  go  well,  and  I  used  every  film. 

"You  Americans  are  queer  people,"  said  the 
superintendent ;  "you  are  not  afraid  of  these  miners, 
and  yet  if  you  went  to  their  village,  and  put  your- 
self in  their  power — well,  I  wouldn't  answer  for 
the  consequences." 

I  am  a  coward,  but  I  am  not  at  all  afraid  of 
Sicilians.  I  immediately  asked  the  coachman  to  take 
us  home  by  way  of  the  miners'  village,  and  the  party 
divided,  some  going  with  the  young  men's  carriage 
direct  to  Girgenti,  while  I  took  the  longer  route, 
with  a  miner  on  the  box-seat  with  Jehu,  and  a 
"caruso"  hanging  on  behind.  Of  course  I  did  not 
meet  with  the  smallest  incivility.  On  the  contrary, 
an  old  woman  whom  I  picked  up  on  the  way  told 
me  quaint  stories  to  add  to  my  gatherings.  Naturally 
I  was  well  scolded  at  the  hotel,  but  the  coachman 
defended  me,  reminding  them  of  the  Barone  G 


336  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

and  the  Barone  A .    These  two  men  own  much 

land  about  Girgenti.  One  never  stirs  out  of  his 
house  without  six  or  eight  mounted  men  to  protect 
him.  The  other  goes  on  foot  alone  everywhere  and 
is  safe  because  everybody  feels  that  he  is  a  friend. 
And  yet — it  is  a  sad  thing  to  stand  on  a  mountain 
and  not  be  able  to  see  beyond  the  land  of  one  man ! 

Next  day  we  went  again  into  the  country  to 
Siculiana,  four  hours  from  Girgenti,  along  roads 
not  supposed  to  be  too  safe,  but  they  seemed  as 
peaceful  as  Long  Island.  We  attended  a  festa  where 
one  man  in  every  six  or  eight  carried  a  gun,  but 
unless  rabbits  are  plenty  it  was  hard  to  see  why  he 
needed  it.  We  bought  roasted  chick-peas  and  pea- 
nuts and  were  as  happy  as  children.  I  did  not  see  a 
beggar  and  the  courtesy  was  in  striking  contrast 
with  the  rudeness  often  encountered  in  Naples  or 
Rome. 

We  went  also  to  Caltanisetta,  where  we  visited  a 
mud  volcano  and  another  group  of  mines.  I  did 
not  go  in  again  but  watched  the  smelting.  A  good 
furnace  smelts  sulphur  in  thirty  hours.  At  Lucia 
the  furnaces  are  twenty- four  in  number,  with  four 
compartments  each.  The  fire  is  started  with  a  little 
coal,  and  spreads  from  furnace  to  furnace,  for  all 
are  connected.  The  old-fashioned  furnaces  consist 
of  circular  walls  of  stone-like  lime  kilns  within 
which  the  sulphur  is  piled,  and  covered  with  refuse 
sulphur  rock  or  slag.  In  these  the  fire  smoulders 
for  three  or  four  days. 


r.r      "'^^^^:r:i^?' 


"Carusi"  Child  Labor 

The  Little   Sulphur  Miners 


IN  THE  SULPHUR  MINES  337 

It  was  not  imagination  that  made  me  see  the 
sulphur  workers  as  occupational  dwarfs.  In  a  grave 
report  of  the  Minister  of  War,  printed  in  Rome  in 
1909  and  retailing  observations  of  the  military- 
classes  born  in  1887  as  called  up  for  service,  it  is 
stated  that  the  largest  percentage  of  boys  above  five 
feet  nine  inches  came  from  Udine  and  Lucca.  The 
greatest  percentage  below  the  height  of  five  feet 
one  inch  were  from  Cagliari,  Sardinia,  and  from 
the  sulphur  districts  of  Sicily.  In  Caltanisetta  one 
youth  of  every  six  is  undersized. 

Yet  it  is  an  interesting  place.  The  old  hotel  is 
buried  in  a  huddle  of  streets,  the  new  one  fine  and 
brave.  Many  of  the  mines  about  this  town  are 
closed  because  of  obstinate  fires  and  a  bad  explosion 
in  one  of  them  four  months  ago  that  injured  sixty 
men.  The  hands  doing  outside  jobs,  such  as  shovel- 
ing loose  sulphur  rock  into  cars,  paint  dark  pictures 
of  their  Hfe;  but  there  is  one  ray  of  hope.  "As  fast 
as  we  can,"  said  one  of  them,  "we  escape  to  Amer- 
ica." The  "carusi"  have  bright  faces  and  go  to  their 
work  laughing,  though  they  may  come  from  it  cry- 
ing. And  they  play  about  the  great  scales  in  which 
the  sulphur  is  weighed  as  if  it  was  a  giant  swing. 

The  piazza  of  the  town  is  too  pleasant  a  place  to 
be  obliged  to  "escape,"  with  the  Sicilian  swallows 
twittering  about,  the  band  playing — in  Sicily  a  bank 
may  maintain  a  brass  band  as  good  business — and  the 
miners,  goat-herds,  peasants  and  town  gentry  taking 
their  evening  ease  together. 


338  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

Ought  I  to  feel  aggrieved  that  in  this  town  a  mass 
of  mud  thrown  through  a  restaurant  window  struck 
my  face?  Assuredly  not;  since  I  was  solemnly  told 
that  it  was  meant  for  quite  another  person;  since 
by  it  I  made  the  acquaintance  of  a  noted  Anglo- 
Sicilian  authoress;  since  the  Mayor  most  humbly 
apologized  in  person,  and  since  the  suburbs  contain 
some  of  the  finest  cave  houses  it  has  been  my  happy 
fortune  to  behold,  yet  not  inhabit! 


CHAPTER  IV 
Hearth,  Distaff  and  Loom 

Gna  Tidda  was  preparing  this  morning  to  set  up 
her  loom  for  a  new  job,  to  weave  a  wider  cloth.  She 
was  adding  to  her  "lizzu" — the  English  "healds" 
is  as  foreign  a  word — by  slipping  on  old  threads 
that  had  been  used  before,  keeping  a  record  of  the 
additions  by  taking  a  grain  of  Indian  corn  from  her 
apron  for  each  twenty-five  threads  and  putting  it 
in  her  lap. 

Gna  Tidda  is  grown  very  gray  and  old  and 
patient  and  sad.  She  lives  alone  in  her  room  at  the 
left  of  the  street.  Her  children  are  married  and 
gone.  Her  husband  died  four  years  ago,  and  she 
has  a  horrible  photograph  of  him  dead  in  bed.  Be- 
hind the  room  is  the  tiniest  kitchenette  possible.  She 
eats  a  pennyworth  of  bread  in  the  morning  and 
another  at  noon;  at  night,  if  she  has  anything  to 
cook,  she  cooks  it,  but  her  ovens  did  not  look  as  if 
they  had  been  used  for  a  month,  and  there  were  no 
olive-prunings  for  fuel.  I  never  pass  the  house 
without  hearing  the  clack  of  the  loom,  and  seeing 
her  bent  figure  in  shabby  black  sitting  in  the  loom 
seat,  her  stockinged  feet  on  the  rough  treadles.  Her 
shoulders  are  bent  alm.ost  to  a  hunch. 

339 


340  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

Gna  Tidda  has  to  keep  her  loom  In  repair,  which 
may  not  be  easy,  as  it  belonged  to  her  cousin's 
mother  and  is  fifty  years  old.  She  must  pay  the 
woman  who  comes  to  fill  the  spools,  and  can  only 
charge  so  many  pennies  a  yard  for  weaving.  Tak- 
ing one  day  with  another,  she  may  clear  seven  to 
ten  cents.  She  is  working  now  on  an  order  from  a 
woman  who  has  a  little  girl  eight  years  old  and  is 
already  preparing  the  stuff  for  the  child's  dowry. 
Little  by  little  the  mother  saves  the  money  for 
cotton  and  linen.  Perhaps  she  has  spun  the  thread 
herself.  She  has  ordered  three  pairs  of  spreads  for 
a  big  bed,  and  this  homespun,  half  cotton,  half 
hemp,  is  preferred  to  machine-woven  stuff  because 
it  is  more  durable.  It  is  not  fine  enough  for  pillow 
cases  or  underwear. 

Gna  Tidda  is  always  tired ;  has  no  longer  the  will 
to  work;  the  cotton  keeps  breaking  and  her  chest 
hurts.  She  suffers,  suffers,  but  compels  herself  to 
go  on.  But  little  attractive  as  loom  and  life  are, 
both  must  be  protected.  She  unfastens  her  dress 
to  show  me  that  she  carries  on  her  neck  figures  of 
various  saints,  including  the  Madonna  della  Rocca 
and  the  Madonna  di  la  Grazia.  On  the  old  loom 
hang  red  rags,  a  little  bag  of  "sacred  things,"  a 
bunch  of  olive  sprigs,  several  small  palm  crosses 
and  a  handful  of  wheat  from  the  piatti — plates — 
of  Holy  Week.  These  plates  are  of  all  sizes,  but 
each  contains  sprouted  wheat  rooted  in  wet  cotton- 
wool, and  reminds  us  of  I  know  not  how  ancient 


HEARTH,   DISTAFF   AND   LOOM        341 

customs  of  honoring  the  old  gods  in  the  season  of 
nature's  resurrection.  At  the  head  of  her  bed  Gna 
Tidda  has  more  wheat  from  the  plates  and  her 
rosary. 

Her  loom  must  differ  little  from  those  used  in 
our  country  in  Colonial  days.  Blankets  and  carpet- 
bags are  made  much  as  our  rag  carpets  are  still — 
woven  by  hand  in  odd  corners  here  and  there.  The 
tension  is  kept  right  by  a  rope  wound  around  the 
beam  and  weighted  with  a  stone. 

At  the  head  of  the  stair-way  street  is  another  old 
woman  who  uses  the  hand-loom  for  fringes,  braids 
and  the  like.  The  garters  of  the  contadini  who  still 
wear  knee-breeches  are  woven  on  the  little  hand- 
loom.  But  this  old  woman  is  weaving  fine  cotton 
and  the  work  goes  slowly.  She  is  very  old,  and  can- 
not work  all  day;  a  little  in  the  cool  of  the  morn- 
ing and  the  evening.  The  hand-loom  is  as  old  as  she 
is.  When  she  was  a  wee  thing  it  was  new.  Now 
that  she  has  a  bad  chest  the  loom  is  sick,  too,  and 
trembles.  Never  does  she  or  any  right-minded 
weaver  begin  a  task  without  making  the  sign  of 
the  cross. 

In  the  dusty,  dark,  low  cellars  of  Limina  I  came 
upon  younger  weavers.  One  of  these  had  a  brown 
face  with  straight  wrinkles  across  the  forehead 
from  perpetual  peering  at  warp  and  woof,  and  eyes 
that  looked  tired.  She  was  making  cloth  for  her 
own  dowry  at  odd  times,  and  weaving  for  hire  as 
well.    And  she  weaves  all  that  the  family  wears, 


342  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

bed  and  body.  The  black  and  white  "scampittu" 
worn  so  gracefully  as  a  mantle  is  woven  on  the 
same  loom  in  summer,  after  sheep  shearing. 

The  colored  ribbons  that  I  see  in  mountain  vil- 
lages, on  the  hand  looms,  red,  blue  and  yellow,  must 
mean  complicated  arrangements  of  the  threads,  for 
mechanism  so  crude.  Silkworm  women  weave 
coarse  stuff  while  tending  their  charges.  Sicilian 
silk  is  yellow,  suitable  for  soft  satins.  In  reeling  it 
the  filaments  should  come  off  evenly  in  one  long 
smooth  thread.  The  method  is  to  float  the  cocoons 
in  basins  in  boiUng  water,  brush  them  until  filaments 
which  will  unwind  to  the  center  of  the  cocoon  are 
found,  then  wind  them  into  hanks  upon  the  reels. 
Much  of  the  inland  silk  must  go  into  the  silk-and- 
cotton  mixture  of  Palermo  factories. 

Spinners  of  spells  are  all  these  women  of  reel 
and  loom  and  spindle;  but  the  wisest  are  of  course 
the  old.  If  one  needs  a  very  special  spinning,  where 
could  one  better  go  than  to  seek  La  Scimone  as, 
bent  double  with  asthma,  she  gathers  minestra  at 
the  foot  of  the  garden. 

La  Scimone  feels  well  enough  by  daylight,  but 
at  night  cannot  lie  down  and  rest,  and  she  is  afraid. 
Medicines  do  her  no  good.  She  can  eat  nothing  but 
eggs  and  a  little  milk.  She  has  prayed  to  God,  to 
the  Madonna  and  to  the  good  people,  and  yet  she 
is  not  well. 

The  air  is  breathless  and  warm ;  the  mountain  is 
covered  with  blue  veils  one  above  another,  through 


HEARTH,   DISTAFF  AND  LOOM        343 

which  the  mountain  villages  show  dimly.  There 
is  just  a  fringe  of  surf  at  Giardini ;  the  water  near 
the  shore  is  greenish-white;  further  out  a  whitish 
blue  and  bluish  purple.  But  there  is  little  air  in  the 
old  woman's  room. 

La  Scimone's  devotional  table  changes  with  the 
seasons  and  Saints'  days.  Recently  it  was  made  up 
of  pictures  of  S.  Pancrazio,  Sant'  Alfio,  the 
Madonna  del  Carmine  and  tlie  Madonna  della  Catena. 
She  has  a  prayer  in  seven  sections;  so  long  that 
when  she  tries  to  tell  it  to  the  priest,  he  says  in  sec- 
tion I,  "Enough!"  Also  she  has  salt  and  oil  for 
evil  eye,  and  never  fails  to  say  "Bless  you!"  under 
her  breath  when  she  has  met  a  person  and  has 
thought  of  her,  "How  fat!"  or  any  other  unpleasant 
thing.  Now  why  should  one  who  is  so  exemplary 
have  asthma? 

La  Scimone's  husband  was  a  sailor.  For  thirty 
years  she  "did  the  tongue"  in  church  to  ensure  his 
safe  return,  but  he  died  five  years  ago.  She  makes 
brooms  for  sale,  and  her  door  charms  against 
witchcraft  are  complete  and  exhaustive.  But  she 
cannot  make  the  round  of  the  great  church  festas 
because  of  the  asthma  and  the  cost  of  travel. 

I  asked  La  Scimone  about  the  conjuration  with  a 
thread,  and  she  said  it  must  be  a  thread  of  wool, 
and  at  once  proposed  to  make  me  a  sufficient  protec- 
tion. Going  to  a  corner  of  the  room  where  there 
was  a  sheepskin,  she  pulled  out  some  flocks  of  wool 
and  shredded  them  in  her  fingers,  making  them  soft 


344  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

and  pliable.  She  looked  admiringly  at  the  stuff  and 
said  she  would  card  it  and  make  me  a  "lacciu" — a 
lasso  or  snare. 

When  at  night  I  went  back  a  minute,  the  beauti- 
ful soft  wool  was  on  the  distaff  and  in  my  presence 
she  spun,  winding  the  thread  about  it.  She  did  not 
finish  because  the  church  bells  began  ringing  the 
benediction;  she  must  go  to  church,  where  they 
would  say  "many  beautiful  things  of  God";  after 
that 

The  snare  later  proved  to  be  a  braid  of  three 
strands  of  wool.  She  could  not  tell  me  how  or  why 
it  is  useful  against  the  evil  eye,  but  there  can  be  no 
doubt  of  the  fact,  for  when  she  was  a  child  her 
parents  told  her  the  evil  eye  had  no  power  when 
it  was  worn.  She  said  I  must  make  a  bag  and  wear 
it  inside  my  dress. 

La  Scimone  does  not  forget  the  church  in  her 
veneration  for  the  old  ways.  In  a  Worcestershire 
sauce  bottle  she  has  holy  water  from  the  three  fonts 
of  the  Mother  Church;  she  is  waiting  a  chance  to 
send  it  down  to  the  wife  of  the  man  who  tends  the 
dazio,  whose  mother  is  dead,  so  the  house  must  be 
sprinkled  anew. 

La  Scimone  has  never  combed  her  hair  on  Fri- 
day, and  she  says  there  are  many  women  in  the 
country  hereabouts  who  have  never  done  so.  For 
there  is  a  curse 

Cursed  be  that  woman's  hair 

For  which  on  Friday  comb  shall  care! 


en 

< 


HEARTH.   DISTAFF  AND  LOOM        345 

Some  who  respect  this  ancient  wisdom  wear  a 
kerchief,  so  that  no  one  knows  the  difference. 
There  are  young  girls,  even,  who  do  not  comb  on 
Fridays.  Some  stay  away  from  the  lace  schools  a 
day  for  that  reason. 

Even  in  America  there  are  people  who  do  not 
like  to  begin  a  journey  on  Friday ! 

As  I  came  down  the  path  with  La  Scimone's 
licciu  fending  off  all  evil  a  day  or  two  later,  Cumari 
Ciccia  was  heating  her  oven — for  in  Sicily  as  else- 
where the  oven  and  the  distaff  are  not  far  sep- 
arated; bread  and  the  needle;  baking,  weaving, 
spinning — these  are  the  trades  of  the  home-matrons. 

Cimiari  Ciccia's  stubby,  calloused  feet  were  bare, 
her  grizzly  hair  in  disorder;  her  dress  was  open  at 
the  throat,  and  the  sweat  was  trickling  down  her 
round,  seamed,  brown  face. 

"Walking  in  this  heat,  Signurinedda ! !"  she  ex- 
claimed, brandishing  a  handful  of  the  vine-cuttings 
she  was  drawing  from  the  writhing  heap  outside 
her  door.     "Sit  down  a  minute." 

As  I  entered  she  opened  the  wooden  shutter  of 
the  little  square  window  about  the  oven  to  let  out 
the  heat,  and  went  on  breaking  up  the  vines.  Gna 
Ciccia's  hearth,  like  that  of  every  contadina  for- 
tunate enough  to  have  one,  is  of  masonwork,  its 
mouth  opening  between  the  two  ovens  that  serve  for 
everyday  cookery,  the  one  a  fire-hole  for  bits  of 
wood,  the  other  for  charcoal  when  steadier  heat  is 
needed.  Under  the  shelf  is  a  recess  handy  for  odds 


346  BY-PATHS   IN   SICILY 

and  ends  or  for  chickens  at  night ;  at  one  side  is  a 
dish-rack.  There  is  no  chimney. 

When  the  flames  had  quieted  a  bit  Gna  Ciccia 
thrust  in  a  poker  with  a  hook  on  one  side  and  a  rake 
on  the  other  and  drew  out  the  nearer  red  embers, 
catching  them  on  the  iron  plate  that  serves  as  oven 
door.  Dropping  these  on  the  floor  she  dipped  a 
broom  in  an  earthen  dish  of  water  and  wet  them 
down,  "for  the  brazier,  when  Uncle  January  sends 
us  cold  weather."  Home-made  charcoal.  Then  she 
broke  and  bunched  more  cuttings  and  fed  her  fires. 

"How  often  do  you  bake?"  I  asked. 

"Every  twelve  days;  and  the  bread,  does  it  get 
dry?  Hard  as  a  stone  to  kill  a  dog;  too  hard  to 
eat  without  grinding  teeth."  She  opened  her  mouth 
to  show  me  a  few  straggling  yellow  fangs.  "But  at 
night  if  there  is  no  cooked  food  one  boils  water 
with  a  little  garlic  and  dips  in  the  bread.  That  is 
good." 

She  wiped  her  face  with  her  grimy  apron.  The 
hen  sitting  in  a  basket  nest  of  rags  under  the  bed 
gaped  in  the  glow. 

"How  long  does  it  take  to  heat  the  oven?"  I 
asked,  pushing  my  chair  as  far  away  as  possible. 

"Half  an  hour  in  August  but  in  winter,  when  the 
walls  are  damp,  perhaps  an  hour." 

A  Colonial  housewife  used  to  piling  wood  intc 
her  brick  oven  would  have  rebelled  if  expected  to 
bake  with  no  fuel  but  grape  prunings,  but  in  Gna 
Ciccia's  land  these  are  good  fuel;  the  woman  who 


HEARTH,  DISTAFF  AND  LOOM        347 

bakes  with  thorn  twigs  or  brambles  is  the  one  to 
pity. 

Again  and  again  Gna  Ciccia  brought  in  waving 
lengths  of  the  red-brown  cuttings,  doubled  them 
and  poked  them  into  the  flaming  cavern.  "The  oven 
is  ready,"  she  said  at  last,  drawing  out  and  wetting 
down  another  heap  of  glowing  coals  and  bending 
to  sweep  the  inside  walls  with  her  black,  charred 
broom. 

The  loaves  were  still  "abed,"  literally  in  the 
family  bed.  Many  times  I  have  watched  Gna  Ciccia 
knead  her  dough,  spread  a  dark  bread  blanlcet  on 
the  bed,  set  her  round  loaves  in  rows  and  cover  them 
with  another  blanket.  Once,  when  her  husband  had' 
been  driven  home  from  work  by  rain,  I  saw  him 
roused  from  a  nap  to  give  place  to  the  batch. 

All  the  older  women  have  charms  to  insure  a 
good  baking,  one  to  be  said  when  mixing  the  dough, 
another  when  the  bread  goes  into  the  oven. 

"Tell  me  again,"  I  begged  Gna  Ciccia,  "what 
does  one  say  over  the  bread?" 

There  was  soot  on  her  white  bristling  eyebrows 
and  lashes  as  she  turned  good-naturedly.  "What 
does  one  say?"  she  repeated,  arms  akimbo,  leaning 
on  the  broom,  "One  says: 

^5  "Rise,  dough,  grow, 

As  grew  little  Jesus  in  his  swaddling  clothes." 

15  "Crisci,  crisci,  pastuni, 

Comu  crisciu  Gesuzzu  'u  fasciuni." 


348  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

Then  she  took  from  its  place  against  the  wall  a 
long-handled  wooden  shovel,  which  she  carried  to 
the  bedside,  lifting  with  it  a  great  round  loaf.  "I'm 
forgetting  the  salt,"  she  said,  and  shifting  the 
shovel  to  her  left  hand,  she  took  a  pinch  of  brownish 
salt  from  a  dish  on  the  rack  and  threw  it  into  the 
oven.  Then  she  signed  a  cross  before  the  oven  door 
and  recited  the  second  charm: 

^'  "Saint  Rosa  and  Saint  Zita, 

Good  of  crust  and  good  of  crumb!" 

She  slid  the  shovel  into  the  oven,  dislodging  the 
loaf  far  inside.  Another  and  another  she  carried, 
until  all  twelve  were  in  place;  then  she  ranged  a 
few  hot  coals  at  the  front  and  set  the  iron  door  in 
place. 

"It's  hot!"  she  sighed,  dropping  on  a  stool  and 
beginning  to  retell  the  gossip  of  the  neighborhood. 
After  fifteen  minutes  or  so  she  took  down  the  door, 
examined  and  moved  every  loaf  and  closed  the 
oven  again  with  a  satisfied  "They  must  bake  a  while 
longer.  If  you  wait  until  they're  done  we  can  eat 
this  noon  some  hot  bread  dipped  in  oil." 

Gna  Ciccia's  bread  charms  may  not  be  the  best. 
Very  common  is  "Santa  Rosalia,  white  and  red, 
like  you,"  referring  to  the  reddish-brown  bread 
crust  and  the  white  within;  or  "Santa  Margherita, 
make  it  pretty  as  a  zita,"  a  bride.   But  you  must  use 

^^  "Santa  Rosa  e  Santa  Zita 

Beddu  di  crusta  e  beddu  di  muddica!" 


HEARTH,   DISTAFF  AND  LOOM        349 

some  charm,  even  if  you  bake  bread  every  day  for 
the  neighbors. 

Seeking  the  mill  that  ground  Gna  Ciccia's  flour, 
one  runs  the  gauntlet  of  street  industries.  Most 
familiar  are  the  old  men  and  women  past  more 
active  work  who  make  fish-nets,  trailing  their  long 
lines  by  the  blank  walls,  and  the  blacksmiths  and 
tinsmiths  who  set  up  forges  in  the  street.  The  bel- 
lows blows  up  a  little  fire  kindled  in  a  hole  in  the 
pavement.  So  one  forges  nails,  or  even  considerable 
pieces  of  iron-work,  or  dismembers  the  square 
kerosene  tins  of  Zu  Vanni  Rockefeller  and  makes 
of  them  a  surprising  variety  of  useful  objects. 

In  an  old  factory  down  by  the  water,  a  long  and 
dusty  shed,  we  come  upon  the  making  of  citrate. 
Three  girls  bending  over  a  trough  cut  with  one 
quick  motion  the  pulp  out  of  half  a  lemon.  The 
peels  fall  on  the  floor  and  are  taken  by  a  boy  who 
presses  them  for  juice  to  make  essences.  The  pulp 
is  ground  in  a  big  hand-mill  and  then  piled  under  a 
press  which  is  turned  by  levers.  The  juice  runs  in 
channels  under  the  floor  to  another  room  whence 
it  is  pumped  into  tanks  and  boiled  with  powdered 
lime-rock ;  the  fluid  is  run  off  into  vats  and  the  rock 
is  squeezed  dry.  The  soft  gray  residue  is  spread 
on  shelves  in  a  drying  room  where  a  stove  fire 
burns  three  or  four  days,  when  the  finished  citrate 
is  packed  for  exportation.  Nearby,  halved  oranges 
and  lemons  are  put  into  casks  with  salt  water  to  be 
shipped  to  Germany  for  marmalade. 


3  so  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

A  little  farther,  at  the  macaroni  factory,  the 
search  for  the  mill  grows  "warm."  There  is  a  mill 
of  a  sort  that  grinds  the  special  hard  wheat  used  for 
"pasta";  then  it  goes  into  revolving  sieves  where 
the  bran  is  taken  out.  It  is  then  fine  flour.  In  one 
corner  of  the  room  is  a  huge  stone,  a  little  hollowed 
by  use,  in  which  the  dough  is  kneaded,  making 
rather  a  hard,  yellowish  batch.  A  suitable  piece  is 
cut  off  and  put  into  a  cylinder,  in  the  bottom  of 
which  is  the  mold,  a  metal  disk  punched  with  holes 
to  graduate  the  size  of  the  spaghetti  or  vermicelli 
as  it  is  forced  through.  This  mold  would  turn  out 
only  solid  pasta.  Above  it  a  clumsy  hand  press  is 
adjusted  so  that  a  woman,  pressing  hard  against  a 
wooden  beam,  toils  from  one  side  of  the  room  to 
the  other,  bending  forward,  a  patient  animal,  as 
in  a  treadmill,  and  the  pasta  issues  at  the  bottom 
in  strings.  The  man  adjusts  them  deftly  along  a 
rod,  cuts  off  the  skein  at  the  top  and  hangs  the  rod 
outside  the  house  to  dry  in  the  dust.  It  takes  from 
a  day  to  two  days  to  dry  the  pasta;  and  whether 
volcanic  sulphur  in  the  air  betters  the  taste  I  know 
not,  but  in  the  lee  of  Vesuvius,  as  of  Etna,  the  sub- 
urbs are  whitish-yellow  with  drying  pasta,  like  a 
floury  wash-day. 

And  now  we  are  at  the  real  mill  of  Giardini, 
small  and  hard  to  find,  but  a  pretty  picture  against 
the  background  of  the  steep  hill.  It  is  almost  the 
only  one  remaining  of  many  that  used  to  function 
along  the  torrent.  The  wheat  is  brought  by  peasants 


HEARTH,   DISTAFF  AND  LOOM        351 

who  have  patches  of  ground  or  who  get  grain  as 
part  wages.  I  often  see  women  sifting  wheat  pre- 
paring to  send  it  down  to  be  ground. 

The  mill  is  overshot.  The  grain  is  weighed  and 
poured  into  a  feeding-trough  from  which  it  is  run 
between  two  small  mill-stones  and  issues  into  sacks. 
And,  as  the  miller  says  the  saints  make  good  flour, 
others  may  wish  to  know  with  what  pictures  the 
hopper  is  covered.  They  are  the  Madonna  delk 
Catena,  a  crucifix,  San  Giuseppe,  Alfio  and  his 
brothers,  Filadelfo  and  Cirino,  and  others — good 
workmanlike  saints,  all  of  them. 


CHAPTER  V 
Speed  the  Plow  ! 

Mark,  too,  when  from  on  high  out  of  the  clouds  you  shall 
have  heard  the  voice  of  the  crane  uttering  its  yearly  cr3', 
which  both  brings  the  signal  for  plowing  and  points  the 
season  of  rainy  winter,  but  gnaws  the  heart  of  the  man  that 
hath  no  oxen. — Hesiod,  Works  and  Days;  Banks's  Trans. 

Retracing  Gna  Ciccia's  flour  from  her  oven  back 
to  the  mill  and  thence  to  the  sower  and  the  plow 
was  a  long  trail. 

It  led  back  to  Rome  and  Egypt ;  across  the  sea  to 
the  United  States;  back  again  to  Sicily  with  the 
returning  emigrants.  It  united  the  most  incongru- 
ous seeming  elements  of  old  and  new. 

Consider  merely  the  plow — not  the  symbol;  the 
tool.  You  may  see  in  many  parts  of  Sicily  the 
ancient  Egyptian  plow  described  by  Maspero  in 
"The  Dawn  of  Civilization";  a  larger  hoe,  drawn 
by  oxen.  A  bas  relief  from  the  tomb  of  Ti  shows 
one  less  primitive  than  that  of  Sicily  often  is.  It 
actually  had  two  handles! 

In  plow-making  the  bend  of  the  wood  is  utilized. 
Two  sticks  fitted  and  spiked  together  at  one  end  to 
form  the  proper  angle  at  the  other,  the  longer  and 
lighter  one  turned  up  and  smoothed  to  a  handle — 

352 


Plowman  Homeward  Bound 


SPEED  THE  PLOW!  353 

this  is  a  plow.  The  end  is  sharpened  at  the  point 
and  hardened  by  fire  or  shod  with  iron.  A  brace 
is  set  between  the  sticks  a  little  back  of  the  coulter. 
A  ruder  plow  may  be  made  of  two  branches  or  the 
natural  knee  of  a  tree;  the  bigger  stem,  placed 
lowest  and  smoothed  at  the  bottom,  serves  as  the 
share;  an  upright  stick  is  the  handle. 

Like  the  Egyptian  fellah  or  the  rayah  of  Asia 
Minor,  the  Sicilian  peasant  sows  by  hand  and  plows 
or  scratches  in  the  seed.  To  restore  fertility  to  great 
areas  impoverished  by  latifundia  since  Roman 
times,  resort  is  made  to  fallow,  which  Hesoid  calls 
"a.  guardian  from  death-and-ruin  and  a  soother  of 
children." 

When  plowing  is  finished  the  plow  is  reversed; 
the  share  catches  on  the  yoke  of  the  animals  that- 
draw  it,  and  with  the  end  of  the  handle  trailing  on 
the  ground  it  is  taken  home.   As  in  Ovid 

.  .  .  what  time  the  laboring  hind,  released, 
The  plow  reversing,  yokes  it  to  his  beast. 

Pliny  describes  the  plowshare  as  "a  lever  fur- 
nished with  a  pointed  beak;  while  another  variety, 
used  in  light,  easy  soils,  does  not  present  an  edge 
projecting  from  the  sharebeam  throughout,  but  only 
a  small  point  at  the  extremity";  but  he  speaks  of 
a  newly  invented  plow  with  two  small  wheels  used 
in  the  Grisons — much  as  an  Italian  of  to-day  would 
describe  a  gang-plow  made  in  Chicago  and  bought 
by  a  Sicilian  co-operative  association. 


354  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

The  thrashing  floor  derives  as  anciently  and 
honorably.  Varro  says  it  "should  be  on  high  ground 
so  that  the  wind  can  blow  upon  it  from  all  direc- 
tions, preferably  round,  with  the  middle  slightly 
raised.  It  should  be  paved  with  well-packed  earth, 
best  of  all  clay,  so  that  it  may  not  crack  in  the  sun, 
and  water  collect."  And  so  it  is  made  now.  The 
sheaves  are  brought  on  the  backs  of  mules  or  don- 
keys. Threshing  is  done  by  treading  the  grain  be- 
neath the  feet  of  animals,  men  stirring  it  with 
wooden  forks.  To  winnow  the  grain,  it  is  tossed  in 
the  air — and  we  see  why  Varro  wanted  free  access 
for  the  wind.  The  heavier  grain  falls  straight,  the 
chaff  is  blown  away.  A  sieve  is  used  for  more  care- 
ful screening. 

Crude?  Well,  a  great  American  farmer,  George 
Washington,  wrote  to  Gen.  Harry  Lee:  "The  model 
(of  an  English  threshing  machine)  brought  over 
by  the  English  farmers  may  also  be  a  good  one,  but 
the  utility  of  it  among  careless  negroes  and  ignorant 
overseers  will  depend  absolutely  upon  the  simplicity 
of  the  construction — I  have  seen  so  much  of  the 
beginning  and  ending  of  new  inventions  that  I  have 
almost  resolved  to  go  on  in  the  old  way  of  treading 
until  I  get  settled  again  at  home  and  can  attend  my- 
self to  the  management  of  one — I  have  one  of  the 
most  convenient  barns  in  this  or  perhaps  any  other 
country,  where  thirty  hands  may  with  great  ease 
be  employed  in  threshing.  Half  the  wheat  of  the 
fnrm  was  actually  stored  in  this  barn  in  the  straw 


SPEED  THE  PLOW!  355 

by  my  orders  for  threshing ;  notwithstanding,  when 
I  came  home  about  the  middle  of  September,  I 
found  a  treading  yard  not  thirty  feet  from  the  barn 
door,  the  wheat  again  brought  out  of  the  barn,  and 
horses  treading  it  out  in  an  open  exposure  liable  to 
the  vicissitudes  of  the  weather." 

The  anonymous  "Virginia  Farmer"  who  has  de- 
scribed for  us  "Roman  Farm  Management"  has  set 
down  many  such  curious  parallels.  In  Varro's 
time  the  peasant  sowed  and  reaped  substantially 
the  same  amount  of  wheat  per  acre  as  the  American 
farmer  to-day.  Varro's  shrewd  advice  that  you 
should  "reserve  ground  for  planting  hemp,  flax, 
rush  and  Spanish  broom  (spartum)  which  serve  to 
make  shoes  for  the  cattle,  thread,  cord  and  rope" 
reads  like  the  appeal  of  a  State  agricultural  college 
in  our  own  South  for  diversified  farming. 

There  are  processes  more  primitive.  Many  is- 
landers have  tiny  patches  of  wheat  snuggled  in 
among  other  crops,  the  yield  of  which  is  reaped, 
like  nearly  all  Sicilian  grain,  with  the  sickle,  beaten 
out  in  small  quantities  at  home  and  winnowed  in  a 
sieve  on  the  doorstep.  When  the  contadino  who 
has  emigrated  to  the  United  States  comes  back  to 
Sicily  he  buys  a  small  farm.  For  a  time  he  rather 
puts  on  airs ;  does  not  want  to  work.  Gradually  the 
soil  draws  him  back.  He  may  enlarge  his  acres  by 
hiring,  like  his  neighbors,  from  the  great  land- 
owners through  their  agents  on  the  share-and-share 
system,  the  landlord  furnishing  the  seed,  the  man 


356  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

the  labor.  Or,  more  likely,  he  will  seek  the  "co- 
operative" and  modern  crop  machinery. 

From  the  door  of  my  hotel  in  Siracusa  I  set  out 
in  a  carriage  one  day  at  dawn  to  follow  the  city- 
dwelling  peasants  out  to  their  patches  of  ground; 
and  to  discovery  beyond.  As  we  neared  the  bridge 
over  the  Ortygia  the  street  was  full  of  men  and 
women  going  out  to  work.  Sometimes  they  spend 
as  many  as  three  hours  going  to  their  tasks  and  re- 
turning for  the  shelter  and  companionship  of  the 
town.  Some  were  on  foot,  with  a  bag  across  the 
shoulder  and  perhaps  a  cricle  of  bread  hanging 
with  a  wide  straw  hat  from  the  other  arm;  some 
were  on  mules  or  pattering  donkeys. 

As  we  left  the  city  and  turned  toward  Canicattini, 
1  began  to  see  peasants  already  at  work,  reaping 
with  sickles.  Their  heads  were  bound  with  red  ker- 
chiefs, their  faces  burnt  almost  as  black  as  Moors. 
With  dexterous  movements  others  bound  sheaves  of 
cut  grain.  Behind  the  reapers  and  binders  followed 
gleaners,  as  in  Bible  times,  each  woman  with  a  huge 
canvas  apron  or  sack  at  her  back.  The  heads  they 
gathered  seemed  scanty.  Each  wore  her  red  ker- 
chief ;  each  was  as  dark  as  the  men.  The  proprietors 
expect  the  workers  to  be  in  the  field  by  daylight 
and  to  work,  with  intervals  for  food  and  rest,  until 
seven  at  night.  Some  give  only  a  money  wage; 
others  supplement  it  with  cheese,  olives  and  other 
bread-accompaniment,  with  wine  at  discretion. 

The   plain  below   Epipolse   was   luxuriant   with 


SPEED  THE  PLOW!  357 

olives  and  almonds,  lemons  and  vines — the  strong 
perfume  of  the  grape  blossoms  filling  the  air.  But 
after  a  little  we  began  to  climb  into  less  fertile 
country,  so  stony  that  I  ceased  to  wonder  that  reap- 
ing is  done  by  hand.  "Machines  destroy  them- 
selves," said  the  driver.  It  was  a  marvel  that  any 
grain  could  be  raised;  yet  where  the  outcropping 
was  most  obtrusive  was  always  the  yellow  wheat, 
with  undergrowth  of  poppies  between  the  stones. 
Here  and  there  were  stone  walls  six  feet  high  to 
keep  off  hungry  animals.  On  fallow  land  overgrown 
with  thistles  and  white  morning  glories  were  graz- 
ing sheep  and  goats.  By  the  roadside  were  wild 
artichokes  in  abundance;  the  driver  called  them 
"time-killers,"  they  are  so  small. 

Up  the  ladder  of  Canicattini  we  went,  so  called 
because  it  climbs  swiftly  through  country  so  barren 
that  even  olive  trees  become  scanty.  Then  again  we 
came  into  wheat  fields  and  vineyards  through  which 
we  fared  to  the  one  long  street  of  the  town,  all 
white  houses  one  story  high,  each  with  door  and 
single  window  frame.  Then  up  again  through  more 
rock  desert,  ever  climbing,  ever  watching  the  reap- 
ers at  their  hot  work,  winding  through  the  passes  of 
the  hills  of  Palazzolo  and  finally  to  the  rock  cave 
tombs  of  Monte  Pineta,  pierced  in  the  sides  of  cliffs 
so  steep  that  one  wonders  how  bodies  were  ever  laid 
there  to  rest. 

The  landlady  of  the  little  inn  has  had  twelve 
children  and  lost  seven.    She  called  me  Little  One, 


3S8  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

and  spoke  of  far-away  America,  to  which  so  many 
of  this  place  have  gone.  So  few  tourists  come  that 
she  and  the  custode  of  the  tombs  remember  them 
all  for  years — but  there  are  links  with  America, 
none  the  less ;  for,  passing  through  Floridia  on  our 
return,  we  found  the  greatest  building  activity  I 
had  seen  in  Sicily,  the  masons  at  work  after  seven 
o'clock  at  night.  Streets  and  streets  of  new  houses 
were  going  up,  each  white,  of  one  story,  with  a 
frontage  of  fifteen  to  twenty  feet;  clean,  neat 
houses,  if  tiny.  They  were  built  by  the  returning 
emigrants  from  America,  and  such  new  quarters  are 
called  "the  American  houses."  They  are  surrounded 
by  luxuriant  vineyards,  olive  and  almond  orchards 
and  the  inevitable  wheat  filling  the  gores  between. 
In  time  these  staring  new  houses  will  be  wreathed 
like  their  ancient  neighbors  with  low  arbors  of 
clinging  vines. 

And  they  told  me  that  at  Belvidere,  a  mile  beyond 
Epipolse,  only  one  thousand  were  left  of  the  one 
thousand  five  hundred  inhabitants;  five  hundred 
men  and  boys  were  in  America !  There  will  be  more 
little  white  houses  when  some  of  them  come  back. 

Everywhere  the  same  story.  Following  the  plow 
to  Monte  San  Giuliano  in  an  automobile  bus  which 
strangely  contrasts  with  sickles  and  threshing  floors, 
we  stopped  at  a  rare  steam  mill  to  deliver  bags  of 
wheat  and  take  in  bags  of  flour;  but  even  from  such 
advantages  the  men  thereabouts  emigrated  hun- 
dreds at  a  time.   In  America  they  make  fortunes  in 


The  "American  Houses'' 


More  Houses  of  Returned  Emigrants 


SPEED  THE   PLOW!  359 

two  or  three  years ;  sometimes  they  come  home  and 
stay ;  sometimes  they  make  a  second  voyage ;  in  the 
end  they  buy  a  bit  of  land  and  settle  down;  so  that 
in  the  same  region  there  are  both  small  proprietors 
and  the  estates  owned  by  rich  nobles. 

In  San  Giuliano  itself  I  was  reminded  at  once 
of  the  steam  mill  and  of  Gna  Ciccia's  painful 
labors  by  three  old  women  working  a  hand  mill  for 
the  grinding  of  wheat;  an  ancient  quern  of  little 
mill-stones  in  the  shape  of  larger  ones,  the  flour 
issuing  in  driblets  into  a  crock  on  the  floor.  The 
women  grasp  a  bar  to  turn  the  stones,  as  they  do  in 
Palestine,  as  the  twelve  slaves  did  in  the  palace  of 
Ulysses,  as  the  Greeks  of  the  Archipelago  do  now. 

There  is  much  money  at  the  Post  Office,  sent  from 
America.  Emigration  interferes  with  the  marriage 
of  the  girls,  though  the  returning  men  marry,  rather 
later  in  life  than  if  they  had  stayed.  The  custode 
of  the  castle,  who  carries  a  gun,  wanted  to  know  if 
I  could  not  recommend  him  as  armed  guard  to  some 
rich  American  family;  half  a  generation  of  tourists 
could  vouch  for  his  honesty. 

The  boy  called  Candela  who  acted  as  guide  at  San 
Giuliano  never  ate  meat  except  at  carnival  and  on 
holidays.  In  the  morning  he  had  bread  and  olives ; 
at  noon  bread  and  finocchi;  or  once  or  twice  a 
week  salt  fish;  at  night  minestra.  "Signora  mia," 
he  asked,  "what  should  I  do  with  meat?  It  is  for 
you  others,  not  for  us."  Candela  had  been  at  school 
and  could  read  and  write.     He  had  learned  a  few 


36o  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

words  of  English  from  some  ladies  who  stayed  a 
month  on  the  mountain — he  thought  because  they 
had  so  much  knitting  to  do  they  could  not  finish  it. 
He  showed  me  a  five-cent  piece  given  him  by  a 
tourist  and  pointed  to  the  head  of  Liberty:  "Amer- 
ica, then,  is  not  a  republic?"  But  republic  or  not, 
all  the  countryside  was  going  there. 

How,  in  returning,  the  adventurers  aid  in  the 
stirring  up  of  Sicily  I  wished  to  hear  now,  not  from 
reapers  and  gleaners  singly,  and  little  boys  dreaming 
of  America,  but  at  headquarters  of  intelligence. 
The  Advocate  lo  Vetere,  a  specialist  in  urging  and 
arranging  for  co-operation  on  the  soil,  was  of  such 
information  an  authoritative  source,  and  to  him  I 
went.  There  were  at  that  time,  he  told  me,  three 
hundred  and  forty-two  co-operative  societies  in 
Sicily,  mostly  in  the  provinces  of  Caltanisetta  and 
Girgenti.  Perhaps  forty  had  taken  land  to  work 
co-operatively.  A  majority  of  their  members  were 
men  who  had  come  back  from  America.  There  is 
intelligence  at  work  in  these  associations,  but  money 
is  lacking.  To  be  sure,  there  is  the  "credito 
agricolo,"  but  the  amount  that  can  be  loaned  one 
group  is  limited.  There  should  be  money  to  buy  up 
the  great  estates  and  split  them  Into  holdings.  There 
is  water;  deep,  but  it  can  be  had.  Machines  are 
coming  in  slowly,  though  much  of  the  land  is  too 
rough  for  machine  sowing  and  reaping.  Emigra- 
tion, says  lo  Vetere,  is  a  great  good,  since  it  brings 
into  the  country  not  only  money  but  intelligence. 


SPEED  THE  PLOW!  361 

The  co-operative  societies  lessen  crime ;  only  men  of 
good  character  can  belong  to  them.  Boys  lie  about 
their  ages  to  go  to  work,  and  age  fast ;  but  so  do  the 
men  who  go  to  America.  They  work  so  hard  to  get 
money  to  come  home  with ;  perhaps  they  do  not  eat 
as  much  as  the  American  climate  demands.  They 
come  home  tired.    But  they  bring  money  and  ideas. 

The  venerated  and  lamented  Giuseppe  Pitre,  be- 
sides his  labors  as  a  savant,  with  some  forty 
volumes  on  folk-lore  and  kindred  topics  to  his 
credit,  and  his  wide  labors  as  a  practicing  physician, 
was  a  Senator  and  a  statesman.  Describing  condi- 
tions which  the  war  must  have  changed  greatly,  he 
told  me  that  emigration  to  America  had  become  an 
intoxicant.  It  unsettled  people,  though  not  so  much 
in  Catania  and  the  large  places — for  the  immigrant 
who  in  America  huddles  in  tenements  is  in  his  own 
land  a  farmer.  Home  wages  were  raised  by  the 
drain  of  labor  until  land  owners  did  not  know  what 
to  do.  Taxes  frequently  ran  to  forty  per  cent  of 
income.  The  American  Sicilians  sent  home  big 
sums  of  money,  preferring  to  deposit  in  their  home 
banks,  but  many  districts  were  too  poor  to  pay  the 
school  tax ;  the  compulsory  education  law  could  not 
be  enforced. 

Whether  the  emigrants  take  Socialism  to  America 
or  bring  it  back  from  there  is  like  the  old  question 
whether  the  bird  or  the  egg  came  first.  It  is  a 
power  in  the  towns,  and  is  becoming  a  power  behind 
the   plow.     Deputy   Giuseppe   De  Felice,   middle- 


362  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

aged,  a  little  gray,  stout,  big  for  a  Sicilian,  not 
much  given  to  Latin  oratory,  earnest  and  sincere, 
is  one  of  the  great  leaders  of  the  movement  and  a 
powerful  man  in  Sicily. 

Him  I  asked  about  conditions  in  Catania  and  in 
the  great  Etna-enriched  plain  to  which  its  city- 
dwelling  laborers  go  out  for  work  upon  the  fields. 
He  was  basing  great  hopes  which  the  war  must  have 
rudely  shocked  upon  the  labor  leagues  and  the 
Catania  Chamber  of  Labor.  The  city  gives  rooms 
for  the  league  meetings  rent  free,  with  lighting  and 
a  little  money  for  expenses.  The  members  hire 
a  doctor  for  each  league,  who  is  paid  perhaps  five 
hundred  lire  a  year.  Each  quarter  of  the  city  has 
its  public  doctor,  but  workingmen  prefer  the  physi- 
cians employed  by  their  leagues. 

De  Felice  favored  emigration.  It  had,  with  the 
action  of  the  leagues,  raised  wages  for  those  who 
stayed,  while  those  who  go  and  come  back  are  not 
the  same  people.  Away,  they  pour  a  stream  of 
wealth  into  the  country;  returning,  their  minds  are 
quicker  and  they  join  in  co-operative  and  other  for- 
ward movements — if  they  stay.  Illiteracy  one  can- 
not estimate,  since  the  last  census  was  taken  in  1901. 
In  all  Sicily  it  may  be  forty-fiv-e  per  cent,  including 
the  smaller  centers. 

But  was  not  De  Felice,  here,  too  optimistic? 
Girls  are  not  sent  to  school  as  generally  as  the  boys 
who  figure  in  the  army  statistics.  Other  authorities 
set  the  percentage  lower.     Nothing  could  be  finer 


Pictures  Made  for  "Babbo  in  America' 


SPEED  THE  PLOW!  363 

in  spirit  than  the  Francesco  Crispi  school  which  I 
had  visited  in  Palermo,  with  its  eleven  hundred 
pupils — the  Sicilian  parallel  of  our  "little  red  school 
house,"  since  most  peasants  live  in  towns.  Here  are 
none  of  the  beautiful  gymnasiums  and  assembly 
halls  of  American  city  schools ;  but  what  American 
school  has  classes  in  fencing?  And  how  many 
teach,  once  a  week,  "rights  and  duties"  in  the  true 
Mazzinian  spirit — one's  duties  toward  his  country 
and  his  fellow  men? 

The  children  look  intelligent;  many  of  them 
beautiful,  with  fine  oval  faces.  They  read,  it  seems 
to  me,  with  more  expression  than  American  children 
of  the  same  age  and  are  more  fond  of  reciting 
poetry.  They  are  neatly  dressed  and  have  been 
carefully  trained  in  politeness.  They  rise  with  one 
accord  as  one  enters  the  room.  Always  in  such  a 
school  are  some  children  who  made  the  beginnings 
of  school  education  in  New  York,  or  near  the 
aqueduct  works  of  Mt.  Kisco  or  the  steel  mills  of 
"Pittisborgo." 

De  Felice  spoke  frankly  of  such  festivals  as  that 
of  Sant'  Alfio  as  relics  of  paganism,  commercial- 
ized, with  which  one  must  be  patient  a  little  longer. 
Italy  has  neglected  the  South;  it  should  have  given 
the  communes  all  the  proceeds  of  the  sale  of  the 
lands  of  the  religious  congregations  for  public 
works.  Naturally  De  Felice  did  not  favor  dividing 
commune  lands  among  small  owners,  because  they 
would  be  obliged  to  sell  them  again  and  the  big 


364  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

owners  would  pick  up  the  little  farms  one  at  a 
time  as  they  have  done  in  the  past.  So  Arthur 
Young,  studying  French  farming  just  before  the 
revolution  of  1790,  did  not  favor  dividing  the  es- 
tates, as  was  so  soon  to  be  done,  preferring  the  effi- 
ciency of  larger  operations. 

De  Felice  is  of  the  fertile  coastal  plain,  the  till- 
age lands.  Castrogiovanni  is  in  the  grazing  coun- 
try of  high  hills;  and  Napoleone  Colaianni,  the 
veteran  Deputy,  is  its  prophet  and  spokesman  in  the 
Roman  Congress,  He  says — and  I  thought  at  once 
of  the  cattle  reivers  of  the  Scottish  Border  and 
other  fierce  bands  in  hill  forays — that  one  reason 
why  Sicily  has  but  one  hundred  and  sixty-four 
cattle  for  each  one  thousand  inhabitants,  while 
France,  Germany  and  Great  Britain  have,  or  had 
before  the  war,  from  two  hundred  and  sixty-eight 
to  three  hundred  and  eighty-three,  is  the  activity 
of  cattle  stealers,  carried  on  under  a  system  which 
subjects  the  owner,  if  he  seeks  to  prevent  or  pun- 
ish the  theft,  to  the  danger  of  having  his  remaining 
stock  killed,  himself  shot  at  or  taken  for  ransom, 
and  his  buildings  burned.  How  are  capitalists  to 
be  attracted  to  an  industry,  however  lucrative,  in 
which  they  are  likely  to  lose  their  all  without 
redress? 

"I  remember,"  says  Signor  Colaianni,  "two 
plucky  young  men  from  Argentina  who  on  their 
return  from  that  far-away  land,  where  they  had 
saved  up  forty  thousand  lire,  full  of  faith  bought 


SPEED  THE  PLOW!  365 

thirty-two  animals  of  the  finest  breed  from  fanciers 
at  Caltavutoro  and  other  villages  to  devote  them- 
selves to  stock-farming.  They  were  fancy  farmers 
exactly  one  week  and  one  day.  Eight  days  after 
they  had  taken  the  beasts  to  the  grazing  ground 
came  the  word  that  all  their  stock  had  been  taken 
by  bandits." 

Colaianni  tried  to  do  something  for  the  young 
men,  but  without  success.  How  should  these  re- 
turned emigrants  of  modest  means  hope  to  escape 
a  toll  which  was  laid  upon  great  landlords,  like 
Baron  Lombardo  of  Canicatti  and  Baron  Sabatini 
of  Petralia;  on  resourceful  lawyers  like  the  Advo- 
cate Algozine  of  Leonforte — the  very  town  where 
the  young  Argentine  adventurers  came  to  grief — 
and  the  Advocate  Pace  di  Bella  of  Bronte?  No; 
the  plucky  pair  went  back  to  Argentina  to  make 
another  fortune.  Cattle  stealing  will  lessen  with 
better  courts,  roads,  detective  service,  schools,  hy- 
gienic service;  they  had  only  one  lifetime  to  spend 
and  could  not  wait. 

The  Sicily  that  is  a  garden,  the  Sicily  known 
chiefly  to  the  tourist,  the  smiling  shore  of  the  sea, 
is  only  one-quarter  of  the  island.  The  frowning  in- 
terior, of  the  wheat  fields  and  the  wide  estates  and 
the  big  landlords  with  their  armed  and  mounted 
guards,  is  three-quarters  of  the  whole  area.  Here 
the  estates  that  existed  even  before  Roman  times, 
intensified  by  the  Norman  baronage,  modified  now 
for  the  better,  now  for  the  worse,  in  constant  three- 


366  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

cornered  struggles  between  serfs,  kings  and  nobles, 
exist  to  our  day.  The  fall  of  feudalism,  so  far  as 
it  did  fall,  made  it  easier  for  a  careless  owner  to 
lose  his  property,  but  also  easier  for  a  more  nig- 
gardly master  to  gain  it — and  no  easier  at  all  for 
the  workers  to  secure  its  division. 

The  modern  land  question  met  Garibaldi  at 
Marsala,  marched  with  him  into  Palermo,  dogged 
him  to  the  Strait.  Franchetti  writes  that  the  North 
Italian  government  has  misunderstood  Sicilian  con- 
ditions, much  as  England  misunderstood  Irish  land 
systems  a  century  ago;  and  that  the  confiscation 
of  church  properties  made  matters  worse.  The 
lands  fell  into  the  hands  of  large  owners,  and  the 
peasants  suffered  a  disaster,  losing  age-old  privileges 
and  being  driven  from  their  homes. 

As  in  France,  the  new  legislation  aimed  at  creat- 
ing small  proprietors,  but  the  auctions  of  church 
lands  took  capital  out  of  circulation,  so  that  peasants 
who  took  small  holdings  could  get  no  advances  to 
work  their  grounds  and  fell  into  the  hands  of 
usurers.  Usually  they  lost  their  lands,  the  estates 
became  wider  than  before,  rents  rose  and  owners 
fattened,  while  the  peasants,  no  longer  allowed  to 
live  in  the  feuds,  to  gather  wood,  to  pasture  their 
animals,  bore  a  rule  harder  than  of  old. 

Inevitably  there  followed  secret  organizations, 
revolts,  bloodshed,  until  public  opinion  began  to 
take  the  Sicilian  land  question  seriously.  Emigra- 
tion supplied  a  harsh  remedy,  so  far  as  wages  went. 


SPEED  THE   PLOW!  367 

but  found  or  forced  no  cure  for  lack  of  water ;  for 
the  closing  of  ancient  rights-of-way  by  new  owners ; 
for  the  absentee  system,  caused  as  often  by  fear  as 
by  greed;  for  the  armed  rural  guards  who  play 
upon  the  timidity  of  city  owners  to  prolong  their 
hold ;  for  the  flocking  of  peasants  into  town  to  find 
more  congenial  labor. 

And  all  this  is  as  much  an  American  question  as 
was  the  famine  in  Ireland  in  1847.  It  has  an  im- 
mediately practical  bearing  not  only  upon  the  im- 
migration of  Sicilians  into  the  United  States,  but 
upon  their  proclivity  for  shooting  robins  when  they 
get  here,  in  the  country ;  and  in  the  city  their  cynical 
views  about  the  police  and  the  courts  of  law.  With 
them  they  bring  their  unwillingness  to  seek  legal  re- 
dress for  wrongs  suffered ;  their  fear  of  testifying 
against  desperadoes ;  their  "mafioso"  code  of  honor. 
Upon  American  soil  their  tribute  to  the  brigand 
scarcely  ceases,  and  for  the  landlord  the  "bosso"  and 
the  padrone  furnish  a  substitute  to  be  feared  or 
hated. 

To  understand  Is  to  pardon.  To  teach  is  to  win. 
Something  we  may  teach  ourselves.  The  Italian  is 
possibly  the  only  element  in  our  immigration  whose 
children  are  less  healthy  in  the  new  country  than  in 
the  old.  The  men,  coming  from  the  farms,  may 
suffer  less  on  the  canal  and  aqueduct,  in  spite  of 
the  bad  housing  of  labor  camps  and  loneliness  for 
home  faces  and  the  beauty  of  the  old  land.  The 
women  and  children,  accustomed  to  live  in  the  open 


368  BY-PATHS  IN  SICILY 

air,  huddle  into  swarming  tenements  and  work  in 
city  factories.  Even  in  mining  regions,  factories 
follow  the  "labor  supply"  to  congested  towns.  In 
New  England  the  factory  itself  is  a  family  affair, 
and  there  are  at  least  fewer  domestic  tragedies  of 
alienation,  desertion,  bigamy. 

But  how  quick  the  children  are  in  school!  How 
the  Latin  genius  shows  in  handiwork  shaming  our 
clumsier  Northern  fingers!  How  the  little  ones 
bring  to  their  schools  the  gift  of  song  and  the  sun- 
shine of  affection!  They  are  the  true  immigrants; 
they  see,  as  their  parents  cannot,  what  America 
really  means,  the  good  and  the  bad  alike,  the  hard- 
ships, but  also  the  opportunities.  Through  them  we 
conquer  prejudice  and  suspicion. 

And  the  fathers  and  mothers,  unlettered  as  they 
are,  and  inevitably  the  prey  of  exploiters  and  agita- 
tors of  their  own  race — have  we  tried  to  teach  them 
also?  Have  we  shown  proper  gratitude  and  appre- 
ciation in  treatment?  Have  we  granted  them  the 
courteous  address  which  is  essential  to  their  honest 
pride?  Have  we  any  conception  of  the  debt  we 
owe  to  their  patient  toil  in  the  darkness  of  the  mine, 
the  danger  of  the  trench,  the  service  of  the  rising 
walls  of  new  homes? 

The  United  States  itself  is  a  League  of  Nations. 
Let  us  look  to  the  justice  and  the  love  that  should 
bind  it  close. 

THE   END  "^~ 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


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